


The Wages of Sin

by celedan



Category: Casanova (UK), Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 18th Century, 18th Century France, Attempted Sexual Assault, Castrati, Crossover, Emotional Roller Coaster, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, France (Country), Gender or Sex Swap, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Royal Court, Royal Court of Versailles, Sex, Temporary Female Aziraphale, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Versailles - Freeform, Wing sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan
Summary: Over thirty years before Crowley rescues Aziraphale from the Bastille, the two meet at the court of Versailles. Both being send there for unexpectedly complicated assignments, angel and demon are hard-pressed to withstand all the lechery and temptation and decadence going on around them because it starts influencing both of their feelings for each other. Nudged in the right direction by new acquaintances like the famous Casanova or Madame de Pompadour, will they stand a chance to resist each other? (Rhethorical question)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will contain 5 chapters that are more or less finished. Could be that I have to change the rating for the story because of the last chapter since I haven't written the scene in question yet ;-) We'll see.   
> I will post the chapters in quick succession though, maybe three or so days apart between each.
> 
> The story is a kind of Good Omens - Casanova - Doctor Who crossover that just happened when I rewatched the Russel T. Davies "Casanova" BBC mini-series lately, staring David Tennant. I just thought that, when I watched Casanova stay at the court of Versailles, there was so much potential with Crowley and Aziraphale having to operate at such a place in between all that decadence, and how hard it would be for them to keep their hands off each other influenced by these surroundings. And when I read that, when Casanova was at Versailles, he knew Madame de Pompadour as well, I remembered the Doctor Who Episode starring her, and thought, why not have the Doctor Who Madame de Pompadour in here as well, waiting for the Doctor. Et voila: it fit together all very nicely into a triple crossover^^.   
> So, basically, we have David Tennant in this story trice: As Crowley, as Casanova, and as the Doctor in absentia. What would Captain Jack think ;-)
> 
> Oh, and you don't have to have seen either Casanova or the Doctor Who episode "The girl in the fireplace" to understand this story. It would be helpful though so that you might gain some insight into Casanova and Madame de Pompadour's characters.

Paris, 1757

Crowley had to admit that Paris was rather nice this time of the century; all that decadence and depravity a city of this size had to offer. 

And all these baser desires got stronger the closer he got to Versailles, the heart of the kingdom of France and a den of iniquity, a temple of all that was sinful. 

Oh, he would have so much fun there.

When he exited his carriage, adjusting his black silk jacket and bright red waistcoat, Crowley breathed in deeply. This heady aura of depravity was a delight for every demon, especially someone who caused as much fun mischief as Crowley did. He enjoyed the tingling over his skin that was caused by all these baser urges that motivated the people here; power, greed, pride, lust.

An involuntary grin broke out all over his face as he stared up at the huge, luxurious palace of Versailles. 

There was so much potential here. It would be so easy to cause a whole lot of mischief with just a few well-chosen suggestions here and there so that all that sinful potential multiplied. But nooo...

Crowley's face fell.

The only reason he had been send here was to tempt one single blasted aristocrat. 

Only one!

He was telling head office for ages now that they needed to modify and hone their seduction tactics. They could doom so many people all at the same time with just one campaign instead of wasting precious time and energy to tempt just one individual for years and years on end. But as long as people like Hastur and Ligur held tight to traditions, Beelzebub wouldn't be open for changes or, Satan forbid,  _improvements_ . 

Bloody traditional lot. Not better than Heaven, really, no matter what they might like to think. They were all just wasting Crowley's time.

Disgruntled, the demon stalked over the cobbled courtyard, the heels of his knee-high boots causing clacking noises on the stone that echoed through the still relatively cool mid-morning air as he left his carriage and driver behind.

Well then, nobody said that he couldn't have some fun privately. He was sure he would find something with which to tempt the whole court of Versailles, and thus amuse himself for a while.

A valet greeted him at the entrance, and led him into the palace. An instinctive wince escaped him suddenly, and Crowley almost gagged at the stench greeting him inside the palace (good thing having to breath was optional for him). This place smelled like a cesspool had exploded and contaminated the whole area. It was simply vile.

Well, he shouldn't be so surprised about the smell: Right that second, Crowley saw a finely-dressed man pissing against a wall under the stairs, and after he had strolled away as if nothing untoward had happened, a servant appeared with a bucket to mop up the whole mess.

Crowley crinkled his nose. Disgusting. If he wanted grossness, he could go back to Hell. 

Satan below and under, if the angel was here to witness this, he would have a fit! 

Crowley'd already noticed that this century was impossible to surpass in all things decadence. As it turned out, the same went for basic hygiene. Even the 14 th century started to seem alluring again. 

“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” the valet asked since he must have heard Crowley's choked noise.

Wide-eyed, fortunately hidden by his dark-tinted glasses, Crowley stupidly stared at the man for a moment. “Ah, ehm, no. I was just admiring all the...” Crowley had to resist the urge to wrinkle his nose. “Magnificence.”

The impassive-faced servant nodded, although a hint of pride tugged at the corners of his mouth, probably because he was allowed to work here. 

_Well, congratulations_ , Crowley thought sarcastically.

Composing himself, Crowley followed the man up the grand staircase and through numerous corridors until he was finally led into a moderately sized ball room where, already, some kind of party was being held. More chatting and drinking than dancing was going on here, which was probably reserved for the evenings, but it was awfully noisy, and busy, and bustling nonetheless.

He wanted to crawl into the next mouse hole he could find and hide.

Add to the noise, the smell didn't get any better in here. The smell of human waste was starting to fade away, but now, Crowley's sensitive olfactory senses were assaulted by the smell of numerous unwashed bodies covered up by heady perfumes that lay so thickly in the air that he felt as if he had walked into a brick wall face first.

What had he done to deserve this assignment?

To distract himself from his predicament, Crowley let his gaze wander around the ball room in search of his target, looking closely at all the people chatting in small groups and the few who had taken up dancing...

Ah, over there!

Fortunately, a demon or angel could immediately recognise their intended assignments, some kind of power hovering over these persons' auras like a beacon. Very handy, really. Otherwise, he would be forced to waste even more time here just to identify his assignment first. 

Crowley had the vague hope that this would be a quick one so that he could get out of here in just a couple of days.

Winding his way through the merry-making humans, he advanced on the man, taking a closer look. According to his assignment papers, the man he was supposed to lure to Hell's side was the king's cousin. A very pious man who had incurred Hastur's displeasure with his saintly way of life – In that case, for the life of him, Crowley didn't get why Hastur wasn't here right now himself if he was so pissed off with this man. 

The demon sneered. Very well. If corrupting the man was Lord Hastur's wish, then of course Crowley would comply. Would be a piece of cake, especially in this environment. Those saintly men were all corrupt on the inside anyway, no matter how holy they thought they were. By tomorrow morning, he would be out of here again, assignment completed successfully.

Huffing in satisfaction, Crowley turned away from the man for now. He needed something to drink to drown his lingering disappointment in. Why couldn't Hell give him a worthwile task instead of wasting his time? He could achieve so much more here if he'd just be allowed to corrupt a diplomat or the Minister of Finances. Diplomatic disputes or plunging the whole country into a financial crisis would be so much more effective than secure one single nobleman for Hell... Although... Crowley looked around. Considering all this luxurious splendour and extravagance, and comparing that with the poverty he had seen in Paris and on his way here, the king and his nobles were on the best way to ruin the country all on their own.

Shrugging, Crowley went in search of a servant carrying a tray with wine, and as soon as he had spotted one, glass of wine now securely clutched in his hand, Crowley settled against a marble pillar at the edge of the dance floor. Once in a while, he was sneaking glances at his target while, for the rest of the time, he took the chance to get a feel for the place and people here, plotting the best way to tempt the man. 

He swirled the red liquid around in his glass. The wine was fine, but even more alluring was the taste in his mouth that was not of a physical nature. All that sinful potential and decadence lying heavy in the air covered his tongue and tastebuds like the most exquisite of wines, and even the bad smells permeating all of his senses weren't strong enough to spoil  _that_ . Crowley had to be careful not to get drunk on it (either in a good or spectacularly bad way).

Until now, people had given him a more or less wide berth (thanks to a little demonic spell since Crowley wanted to have his privacy for the moment), but suddenly, a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere next to him who didn't seem at all repelled by the demonic power holding people around him at bay. Maybe he was too preoccupied; he was craning his head as if looking for someone intensely. His curiosity aroused nonetheless, Crowley gave him the once over. Tall. As tall as Crowley, even a bit taller thanks to the white dyed, artfully styled wig he wore – not Crowley's taste, that was for sure; he liked to show off his copper hair as much as he could and was proud of its lushness and fiery lustre. He didn't even wear a wig or powdered his hair. Much to his delight, his flaming hair must shine out like anything in between all these white-headed people around him. With a slight grin, he'd already noticed the scandalised but at the same time blatantly intrigued glances he'd earned with his appearance.

Anyway, his interest was now drawn as to what – or whom – the man seemed to look for so urgently that he even traipsed right into the demon's repellent circle. 

“Lost something?” he asked casually which drew the man's attention.

Startled, the man turned to Crowley, dark blue eyes meeting Crowley's own behind his tinted spectacles. Then, the man shrugged, and leaned against Crowley's pillar as well, crossing his arms in front of his chest casually. 

“Yeah, lost a lady.” He shrugged, and threw Crowley a so charmingly, boyish grin that it even affected the demon somewhat. “But I'll find her again, no worry.”

Infected by the man's cheeky mood, Crowley chuckled. 

“You're new here, aren't you?” the man asked then, and eyed Crowley from head to toe from the corner of his eye. “Never seen you before, and believe me, with your hair, I would have remembered you.”

“That's the intention,” Crowley boasted, a shark-like grin on his face. 

“Giacomo Casanova,” his new acquaintance introduced himself after Crowley's answer had drawn a chuckle from him. “And you are?”

Crowley froze at that, completely ignoring proper manners that would have dictated introducing himself in turn immediately. “Wait... you are Casanova?  _The_ Casanova?”

Crowley's own shark-like grin was reflected back at him smugly. “Oh, you've heard of me.”

“Fleetingly,” the demon scoffed to cover his sudden fluster. There was something about this man that affected people, he had heard, but no wonder, he was the famous Casanova. A man who's talents at temptation had even impressed Hell. Maybe they could hire him as a freelancer... Oh wait, maybe Crowley could utilise him to seduce all the women at court (at least those the man hadn't seduced yet). That would be fun. A small grin tugged at Crowley's lips. The potential of that man had to be nurtured for higher aims...

Suddenly, Casanova's head jerked to the sight. He seemed to have spied his target again. A mad, dashing grin broke out on his face, and he met Crowley's gaze briefly.

“Gotta go now.”

“I understand,” Crowley chuckled, and made a shooing notion.

The grin turning even brighter, his new acquaintance slipped away.

“Oh, I didn't catch your name,” Casanova called back to him, going backwards a couple of steps to face Crowley for a moment longer.

“It's Crowley,” the demon answered without thinking, and only later, when Casanova had gone already, did he realise that he had completely forgotten to use his fake title to introduce himself.

“I look forward to our next meeting.”

And with a charming grin and a wink, Casanova melted back into the masses of nobles that looked all the same to Crowley.

“Huh,” the demon made, a peculiar feeling wriggling through him. He had to admit, even if only in the darkest pits of his mind, that he couldn't help but like this Casanova.

He was in a considerably better mood now. All this socialising wasn't his cup of tea, mind you, even if he could be charming an suave if the situation required it, but he was actually starting to have fun here, hard as that was to believe. If all of the people he met here were like Casanova (he doubted it), then his stay at Versailles wouldn't be so bad. Grinning a little dopey, Crowley looked in the direction Casanova had disappeared in, but he couldn't spot him any more. Ah, well. He'd get the opportunity to speak to the man again.

For a while, Crowley continued watching the people around him unashamedly through his glasses (not that the other people didn't do the same with him, just more openly and without any discreet glasses hiding their stares), judging and marvelling, while he fortunately was spared from any annoying small talk thanks to his repellent charm. His solitude amidst the noisy crowd came to an abrupt end at one point though when suddenly, a figure barrelled right into him. From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw a blur of creme-coloured, voluminous skirts, but didn't have time to think about anything more – for example why his bloody charm to keep people away was failing yet  _ again _ ! – since, in the next second, he had his arms full of the owner of these skirts, his empty glass flying from his grip, and crashing to the ground spectacularly loud. The lady that had run into him had stumbled, probably over her own skirts, and Crowley reacted instinctively before she could tumble to the ground. 

They must present quite the sight, with Crowley holding this woman in his arms in a precarious dip so as if she had swooned in his arms, she clinging to the silk of the arms of his jacket like a lifeline. But Crowley couldn't care less as time seemed to stand still in that moment as he met wide grey-blue eyes that widened even more when he was recognised. 

For a split-second, Crowley's arms threatened to disobey his wishes and simply become boneless, letting the figure in his arms crash to the ground spectacularly. Only a very stern word made his muscles see reason, and they held tight. 

“Aziraphale,” he gasped breathlessly, completely thrown to encounter the angel here of all places.

Aziraphale swallowed heavily as they still held eye contact. 

“Crowley,” he mumbled, completely flustered, probably because they were causing such a scene here, much to the amusement and delight of the surrounding humans eager for some gossip.

Both of them clearing their throats in embarrassment, Crowley forced his arms into motion, and jerked the angel back up, putting him back on his feet. They quickly looked away from each other. Then, Crowley had to look again, unabashedly taking in the angel's appearance; the flowing, pale blue and cream-coloured silk skirts leading up to voluptuous curves squeezed into a corset that was so tight that ample, to his eyes unfamiliar creamy breasts almost spilled out of it at the top. Swallowing heavily, Crowley had to quickly raise his eyes up to slightly fuller than normal lips, rosy cheeks and thankfully familiar eyes. By now, he must be as flustered as Aziraphale.

He had a quick, harsh word with his complexion which he felt turn back to a normal colour in the next second.

Clearing his throat once more, Aziraphale, out of habit, reached up fidgety hands to adjust his jacket collar and cravat, only that in this case, he hadn't those at his disposal at the moment. Instead, the angel fumbled around with the lace collar of his dress, inadvertently revealing even more of his cleavage before he reached up to bring some order back into his relatively simple hairstyle – Crowley was relieved to see that Aziraphale, like himself, had kept it simple; and to be honest, the angel of all people didn't need all this pomp and the tons of make-up the other women seemed to need to cake to their faces. He captivated his surroundings with his natural beauty alone... 

Quickly, Crowley shook his head, appalled. Had to be this place that such thoughts were haunting him now. Yes. Or Casanova rubbed off on him.

Against his will, Crowley's gaze wandered back to the angel's breasts, the soft mounds moving softly with the angel's nervous fingers still tugging and fussing with the lace.

“Stop that, that dress's revealing enough,” was the first thing Crowley wanted to say, but instead, what came out was an awkward, “Nice dress. Looks good on you.”

An involuntary rosy blush once more coloured plump, pale cheeks, and that comment seemed to snap Aziraphale out of it because he finally wrenched his hands away from his neckline. Taking in a deep breath that put the corset to the test, Aziraphale looked around, somehow seeming a little nervous and flustered, but not because of his spectacular encounter with Crowley.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow.

“Why so flustered, angel.” He smirked smugly at the angel, immediately feeling better now that he was on familiar territory by teasing his long-time acquaintance.

More colour rushed into Aziraphale's cheeks, but this time, he turned red because he was clearly affronted.

“These men,” he huffed, and looked around again. “I really can't work like this!”

Puzzled for only a second, Crowley's gaze swept the angel's figure once more from head to toe, and then, he noticed the stares of some of the men around them. Suddenly, he had an inkling as to what interfered with Aziraphale's work. 

Glaring acidly at the men staring shamelessly at the angel until they had the decency to turn their lusty stares away, Crowley could nonetheless understand them, deep inside. All these fickle cows with their tent-like, overloaded dresses and their paint-encrusted faces under ridiculous hairstyles high as the Tower of Babel couldn't hold a candle to the angel...

“Why're you here as a woman anyway?” Crowley quickly asked to force his thoughts to shut up.

Huffing tetchily, Aziraphale crossed his arms in front of his chest (grave mistake, since that movement once more drew lustful male eyes onto the angel's figure so that Crowley would have loved to either turn into a giant serpent to eat them all or slip out of his jacket to cover up Aziraphale's cleavage). “I've been send here to influence an aristocrat to our side.” 

Looking around once more, but without the haunted aggressiveness this time, Aziraphale eventually pointed at a young man at the other end of the room, laughing and being surrounded by giggling young ladies.

“He's a lazy wastrel. For whatever reason, my superiors think it would be a good idea to give that young man's life a more virtuous note.” Whining a little grumpily, Aziraphale shrugged. “But I haven't had much luck with him up until now. Haven't even talked to him yet since I'm here.”

“And your being a woman helps with that why?” Crowley drawled, although he could already think why.

“Gabriel thinks this form would help me to complete my assignment successfully,” the angel then promptly confirmed.

Crowley couldn't help but snort sarcastically at that. Gabriel was probably right in that assumption, but hadn't thought the idea through. Crowley really doubted that, with that body, Aziraphale would achieve anything with  _ talking _ to that boy. With people like him, talking was rather a minor matter.

Not noticing Crowley's inner monologue, Aziraphale continued by rolling his eyes. “Please. As if I work like that. What does Gabriel think I'd do? Going over there and seducing the poor boy to make him see reason?” He snorted inelegantly. “This isn't Hell, after all.”

To be honest, Crowley thought Aziraphale's flustered indignation was awfully cute, and he had a lot of fun at the moment watching the angel get all worked up about it. At least he got what Gabriel had intended with the gender switch (wouldn't be the first time that Aziraphale didn't have a clue about things – not that Crowley always had, mind ya). Maybe the Archangel wasn't so stupid and unwordly as Crowley had thought, and had had the right idea for once – even if Crowley didn't like that at all; it wasn't right to use Aziraphale in that way, and if he could, he would prevent that any unworthy mortal put their grabby hands on the angel...

“What?” Blinking, he stared at Aziraphale stupidly who had obviously asked him a question while Crowley had been deeply immersed in his frantic thoughts. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I asked why you are here?”

“Oh, just some tempting to do.” Looking around for his own target, Crowley pointed at the man. He crinkled his nose in disgust. “'S so pedestrian, that assignment. I could make real changes here if they'd just let me.”

Reprovingly, Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. “Surely you won't dare.”

Crowley shrugged at that. “If you wanna thwart me, be my guest,” he said a little flippantly. Aziraphale sniffed condescendingly. “Maybe I'll come back to that.”

Feeling the good – or at least amicable – mood quickly plummet into an abyss deeper than the darkest pits of Hell, Crowley changed the topic. “At least we're lucky that they didn't assign us the same human. 'M really not in the mood to cancel each other out again.”

“Oh God, yes,” Aziraphale moaned tetchily, and rolled his eyes once more. “It's so dreadful when that happens.”

He huffed moodily, but seemed to regret it at once as he scrunched up his nose in disgust, and pulled a snow-white handkerchief from the folds of his cleavage. Whiffs of lavender rose into Crowley's nose as Aziraphale pressed the cloth under his nose.

“It's disgusting, isn't it,” Crowley nodded. “Don't know how they can stand it.”

“They're probably used to it.”

“We've been living here longer than any of them,” Crowley reminded. “We should be used to it, too.”

“But we have standards,” Aziraphale sniffed. “By the way, who are you supposed to be?”

“Ahhm, the... the Marquis de Hades. Yeah, that's it. You?”

“I'm the Duchess of Eden.”

Silence descended over them for a second while they looked at each other impassively. Then, all of a sudden, angel and demon broke out into giggles.

“T-this is so ridiculous,” Aziraphale wheezed, desperately trying to keep in his impolite giggling.

“Human's are so stupid to buy that,” Crowley cackled, slightly doubling over to hold his stomach that started to ache from all the laughing.

“Shh,” Aziraphale hissed, still giggling himself which slowly turned into hiccups. “They'll hear.”

“Pfft. Let them. Couldn't care less.”

Slowly calming down again, the two looked at each other intently once more, and only then did Crowley notice that Aziraphale had placed his hand onto his arm earlier. The mood between them changed all of a sudden, the air suddenly practically sizzling with heated tension, and Crowley had to swallow heavily. 

“I missed you,” he confessed softly before he could rein in his rebellious mouth. Gulping, Crowley realised how vulnerable he'd made himself in front of Aziraphale just now, and when the angel didn't react, just contemplating him with that slightly lofty, piercing gaze, Crowley started to panic.

He let out a sigh of relief he hadn't even noticed holding when Aziraphale eventually smiled a small, intimate smile. The angel opened his mouth to say something, but in that moment, a woman bustled over to them.

“Oh, my dear Duchess,” she chirped, and placed a delicate hand onto Aziraphale's lower arm. “There you are. I've been looking for you.”

Aziraphale smiled at the woman, and Crowley had to notice that it was a genuine smile, no hint of annoyance about the disturbance visible. He growled softly under his breath, and then found himself subjected to the woman's appraising gaze. 

“Won't you introduce me to your friend?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Ehm... This is Cr... the Marquis of Hades. A very old... friend. Dear, this is Madame de Pompadour.”

Crowley was still stuck at the hesitantly voiced “friend” before he finally realised what Aziraphale had said. He eyed the quite attractive woman in exquisite clothing before him. So. That was the famous Madame the Pompadour. She was the former mistress of the king, wasn't she? But still a court favourite and a woman with immense power. She was practically prime minister these days and a very close friend and counsellor of the king. Crowley imagined a lot of people, especially men – they were so tetchy when they thought their masculinity was threatened – didn't like her for that. Crowley however couldn't help but admire her. 

He brought himself to muster up the most honest and charming smile he could come up with, and he grasped the lady's hand to press a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. “It's a pleasure, Your Grace.”

A fine blush spread over Madame de Pompadour's cheeks and all the way down to her lush cleavage, and in that moment, Crowley absurdly wondered if Aziraphale's blush spread that far down as well.

A small, flattered, girl-like giggle escaped the second most powerful woman at the court of Versailles, and Crowley could see Aziraphale rolling his eyes fondly in his peripheral vision at the demon's attempt to be chivalrous.

“Please excuse us, dear Marquis,” Madame de Pompadour then said abruptly, clearing her throat, and drawing herself up to her full height in a businesslike manner to cover her flustered state. “But I'm afraid I have to abduct your adorable companion for a while.”

And with that, without waiting for Crowley's answer or protest (not that she would have been compelled to care anything about his protests; her position at this court was much higher than Crowley's own), she whisked Aziraphale away who threw him a slightly apologetic look over his shoulder while mouthing “later”.

Being left behind, Crowley shrugged, and looked around for another glass of wine. 

He should start working on his assignment anyway.

Highly motivated, he made his way in the direction of the king's cousin to trick his way into the man's orbit.


	2. Chapter 2

Huffing, Crowley slunk off into the park to have a good sulk. 

Somehow, he couldn't seem to get a good rapport with the man. That human outright didn't like him, so as if he, pious as he was, sensed Crowley's infernal nature. 

He scrunched up his nose.

If he had to be truthful, he felt uncomfortable in the man's presence as well. He was more godly than Crowley had thought, and so, his assignment had just turned more complicated than expected.

“Well, you wanted a challenge, didn't you,” he muttered under his breath, and slumped onto the edge of a huge fountain in front of the palace's garden front.

A couple of minutes later, someone sat down next to him, and Crowley turned to the intruder to snap at them to go away. He aborted the plan immediately when he saw who it was.

“Oh, it's you,” he muttered, and slouched back into his sulking position.

“Yeah, sorry to disappoint,” Casanova chuckled.

“Have you been successful at least?”

“You mean my elusive lady? Nah. She's clever. And elusive. But it's still early in the day.” The man shrugged before he took a closer look at Crowley. “What're you doing here all alone? Someone turned you down, too?”

“No... Yes. Kind of. Just wanted to get some fresh air, 's all.”

“Oh God, yes,” Casanova agreed whole-heartedly. “That place stinks to high Heaven.” He snorted, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. “The centre of the royal world, and it stinks worse than a tannery in the summer – and I know what I'm talking about, I've lived above one in Venice.” Casanova shook his head again. “Been here six months, and still not used to the smells.”

“Why're you here then?”

Earnestly interested now, Crowley twisted his upper body to face Casanova.

“Ehm, you know... just working on a few things,” the man answered a little sheepishly, and evaded Crowley's intense gaze that the human must feel even through the glasses.

“What's with the sunglasses?”

“Ehm, bad eyes, you know. Very sensitive to light. Don't change the topic.”

Sighing heavily, Casanova leaned back, propping his arms behind him on the fountain's edge to stare up into the blue sky.

“You're a tough adversary, but alright. I'm here to convince the Venice ambassador to pardon me so that I can return to Venice.” Casanova shrugged. “Didn't work, so I'll stay here for a bit. Give my son a proper home for a bit now that I've made some money... well, a filthy lot of money. I invented the state lottery recently, did you know that?”

The corners of Crowley's mouth tugged up into a smile as that man grinned at him so smugly and proudly. 

“No, didn't know that. Good thinking.”

He really should hire this unusually clever man. He'd make a good addition to Hell even though – and Crowley could feel it clearly by now – he didn't seem head-diving straight downstairs for all his salacious sins. Crowley clearly felt that that young man would go to Heaven one day. Huh. Strange... 

“And you?”

“Oh, eh, just to meet someone,” Crowley answered vaguely.

“Ah, that person who turned you down earlier?”

Crowley rolled his eyes when Casanova smiled smugly. “No. It's not like you think. I'm here to do business with this man. But...” Growling in helpless rage, Crowley jumped up, and started pacing up and down agitatedly in front of Casanova. “He's just so... ughn... so disgustingly pious.”

“Sounds as if you plan to tempt that man to sin or something,” Casanova snorted. 

“Something like that. Business, remember. But it's not working.”

Casanova frowned. “I won't claim to really know what you're going on about, but if it's bringing down a holy man that you're after, then that's not so difficult. I almost killed a priest by confessing all my amorous adventures to him. Heart attack. But it was an accident, mind you. I nursed him back to health, and he adopted me.”

Crowley felt a little better all of a sudden as he was subjected to that boyish grin that made him feel as if he had known this man for ages now.

This human was incredible.

Calmer now, he sat back down next to Casanova. “And? Doing any clever inventing at the moment to pass the time?”

“Oh, here and there. Making important friends, keep myself a little in check with the women – wouldn't do my health any good seducing the wrong woman at _this_ court; for all their frivolity, the men here can be remarkably tetchy about things like that, even more so than the Italians. Ah, and I'm dabbling with Alchemy and Occultism a bit. 'M quite good at it, and they just love it here at court, these fools. Paying me fortunes for my magical talents and knowledge. Especially Madame de Pompadour.” He grinned madly at Crowley again who returned the grin. 

“Yeah, remarkable lady. Just met her earlier.”

“She is. And she's definitely not a fool, I have to admit. Not like the others. Pity though that they're all so decadently irresponsible and have their heads in the clouds. Some of them are quite nice. If you ask me, behaving like that while the rest of country starves can't go well in the long run.”

Nodding, Crowley crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I agree. You shouldn't stay here too long. Just to make sure.”

“Nah, don't plan to. Just make a bit more money first.”

Crowley grimaced distastefully. “Money's overrated.”

“Easy to say for a man who has it. And a real title.” Casanova chuckled. 

Crowley eyed him sideways. “Who says I have money? Or a title?”

The two men looked at each other, the kindred spirits of a conman slash tempter and the original tempter suddenly basking in each other's presence, and for the rest of the afternoon, they just sat there without saying anything further. It wasn't necessary.

It was early evening when Crowley and Casanova parted ways, and returned into the palace. Another ball, bigger this time, of course, was planned for tonight, and Crowley quickly changed into a more fitting attire for the occasion by snapping his fingers in an unobserved moment.

He hadn't seen Aziraphale since this morning, and he wanted to talk to the angel again. Just to enquire about his progress for his assignment, of course...

He couldn't spot him anywhere inside the ball room, though, so Crowley steered for the only place the angel could be found sooner or later without a doubt: the buffet.

But much to his disappointment, Aziraphale wasn't here either. Standing in front of tables upon tables laden with exquisite food, pondering his situation, Crowley absent-mindedly spotted quite a few things he knew the angel would love. Surely, that would tempt him here at one point...

Someone came to stand next to him, and before Crowley even had to look, he recognised that soft, oh so familiar divine energy that surrounded Aziraphale.

What surprised him though was that the angel stood next to him in his usual male corporation again. Marvelling, Crowley looked him over from head to toe, that painfully familiar face and soft body that was being hugged by cream-coloured silk knee-breeches, waistcoat and matching jacket, all lined with gold emproidery and a pure white shirt and shirtruffles peeking out of the top of the waistcoat.

Although the angel looked prim and proper like always – for some people even a little boring and prudish –, Crowley had to grin at the little fashion deviant standing next to him. No silly wig in plain sight on the angel's head, just his usual short, dishevelled, white-blond curls framing his face, shining like a halo in the golden light of thousands of candles lining the walls and ceiling. His grin widening, Crowley noticed the few curious, shocked or admiring glances for the angel's bravery or audacity to dare not conform to fashion and wear a wig. His hair blended in with the white-dyed wigs through its colour, but definitely not its style. 

And there Crowley thought he was a deviant. 

“What?” Aziraphale snapped suspiciously when he noticed Crowley's grin.

The demon chuckled involuntarily. He had to be careful that it didn't turn into a fond snicker. “You know, angel,” he said, as composed as he could, “I've always admired your adamantly stoic refusal to change hairstyles in any way over the millennia, no matter what.”

Aziraphale sniffed loftily. “Not everyone can be a fashion victim like you, my dear. I have style. And this,” he indicated the partially ridiculous hairstyles that the other people sported, “is  _ not _ style.”

“Experimenting is fun, angel,” Crowley snorted although he had to agree with him there that Aziraphale was completely right. Over the years – and it had been a lot of years by now –, Crowley had seen a lot of crazy fashion and hairstyles, but the French court of the mid-eighteenth century seemed to take the biscuit in that regard. Not even the Romans had been that crazy.

“This applies to your breeches as well?” the angel asked primly, and discreetly eyed Crowley's lower half.

Puzzled, the demon looked down on himself. “What?” He made a half-turn, and twisted his upper body in quite an inhuman way so that he could look down his back side, too. Black knee-breeches, black stockings and black, high-polished shoes with wickedly blood-red soles, boldly red jacket, and black waistcoat over black shirt and lace cravat; he couldn't find anything amiss.

“They're rather... tight,” Aziraphale murmured, and tactfully grabbed Crowley's biceps to turn his upper body in the right position again while probably thinking Crowley didn't notice the soft blush dusting his cheeks in the golden candle light. 

A bright grin almost split Crowley's face. “Ahhh, angel, didn't know you take such close looks at me.”

The blush intensified adorably. “It's indecent. People are giving you looks.”

“You like it,” Crowley taunted, definitely not caring what people thought, except when he could bask in their scandalous looks.

“I definitely don't.”

“You do.”

“I don't, Crowley, end of topic!”

A small chuckle still stuck in his throat, Crowley conceded. Aziraphale seemed bitchy enough somehow, and he didn't want to thwart the good mood.

“Okay, not starting with your oh so decent cleavage then, but why have you changed back by the way?”

Aziraphale huffed. “It was getting on my nerves, all this attention and advances,” he said primly. “For the love of the Almighty, who's supposed to get some serious work done like that! Oh, and just that you know, I'm the Duke of Eden now.” Aziraphale pursed his lips and waved his hand dismissively while Crowley was just extremely amused. “Just worked a little miracle. Nobody will miss the Duchess. They'll all think they've been dealing with the Duke all along instead of her.”

“Clever angel,” Crowley mocked.

The sarcasm went right over the top of Aziraphale's head.

“Isn't it.” He smiled smugly like the cat that got the canary. “That rake was quite confused, I can tell you.” 

“What rake?”

“Well, that Casanova chap that's been stalking me all day. I've been so busy with avoiding him while trying to get close to my target that I haven't even found the time to eat a bite!”

Crowley's blood ran cold all of a sudden – and for a naturally cold-blooded being, that was quite the feat.

His thoughts were racing, and, having a sudden inkling, he turned his gaze to the other side of the room where he spied the man in question. 

Now that he knew that Casanova's advances had been directed at Aziraphale, Crowley didn't think his initial idea to set Casanova on the court's women so fabulous any more. He didn't think the man so fabulous period.

“That traitor,” he hissed, and glared daggers at Casanova from afar who indeed looked a little puzzled. He probably didn't even know why he was puzzled exactly. Crowley at least was quite satisfied that he wouldn't pursue the angel any more from now on.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Aziraphale's innocent expression turned condescendingly bewildered, and he followed Crowley's gaze to where Casanova loitered. He sucked in an indignant breath. “I should have known that you two already know each other.”

“We don't,” was faster out of Crowley's mouth than his forked tongue when in serpent form. 

Suspiciously, Aziraphale scrutinised Crowley from the corner of his eye, but didn't comment any further, much to Crowley's relief.

“Although I have to admit he does look a bit like you, my dear,” Aziraphale suddenly mused, and let his gaze wander over Crowley's black and red-clad form.

“He doesn't look anything like me!” the demon hissed indignantly.

Completely oblivious once again to Crowley's indignation, Aziraphale just nodded. “I do think he does.”

“Anyway, what's with that aristocratic brat you're supposed to lead into the _light_?” Crowley suddenly changed the topic lightning-quick, but not without needling the angel a bit. It worked every time, after all, and he deserved it.

The angel sniffed, and raised his chin loftily. “He will have to make do with this body from now on. Nothing wrong with it after all.”

That was something Crowley could agree on whole-heartedly because this one was as alluring as the female one in his opinion, and he really didn't care what form Aziraphale had anyway.

He couldn't say that out loud though. He should not even think it. Instead, Crowley snorted mockingly, thought better of it though so that the noise turned into something that sounded like a drowning cat. The angel was pissy enough as it was, so it wouldn't be all that clever to tell him that he obviously hadn't quite understood what the reason for his changed gender had been after all. Aziraphale should realise that with how adamantly most people held fast to their stereotyped thinking, his assignment had suddenly turned a whole lot more complicated by switching back to his corporation's usual gender. 

At least Crowley wasn't alone in his predicament now.

Instead of risking indignant divine wrath, Crowley decided to snatch up a plate, and fill it with various delicacies which he then could hand over to a visibly reconciled angel if the gentle smile Crowley received for his actions was any indication. 

Deciding in mutual agreement that they needed fresh air, the angel and the demon snatched themselves some wine (a whole bottle, to be honest, that had miraculously turned up in Aziraphale's hand), and escaped onto one of the balconies. It was summer, after all, and therefore quite warm. Even Crowley started sweating under his black stock, and he began tugging the tight fabric away from his overheated neck not long after they'd settled out here.

His sudden hot flush wasn't due to the heat outside though but to the obscene noises the angel started making unwittingly as he tugged into the food. They hadn't seen each other for a while, so Crowley actually seemed to have forgotten how indecent the noises the angel could make while eating were. How could he have forgotten  _ that _ ?

Or it was this place. It turned every innocent thing into something sinful and debauched, even influencing an angel. 

He was so flustered that he didn't even protest when a nibble of food suddenly appeared in front of his face. Obediently, he opened his mouth, and allowed the angel to feed him. 

“'S hot,” he complained, his embarrassment forgotten already. “Wasn't the food cold when I got it from the buffet?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Their fault when they design this palace completely wrong, and place the kitchens miles away.”

Crowley had to snort at that. “If it was your palace, the kitchens would be right next to the library, wouldn't they.”

“Naturally.” The angel raised his chin proudly, and took another bite of whatever he had picked up from his plate.

The passing of time was only evident through the wandering of the moon which, at some point, had seemed to circle around the palace so that it now fully illuminated the little spot of privacy Aziraphale and Crowley had occupied for themselves for the last couple of hours, catching up since they hadn't seen each other for fifty years, drinking, enjoying each other's company...

Every once in a while, they watched what was going on inside from their spot on the balcony balustrade, but out here, the by now almost oppressive powers of sin were but a gentle pounding in their heads, almost undetectable (the same went for the stench; mostly).

“It's the dancing,” Crowley guessed. “It potentiates the salaciousness.”

“You're probably right,” Aziraphale agreed, taking a sip of wine. “I'm just glad to be a man again. This corporation relieves me of the obligation to dance.”

Crowley frowned. “I don't get it,” he finally had to admit at a loss.

“Well, somehow, people seem to think that women are only hell-bend on dancing at these get-togethers. Why should I partake in that? There's a perfectly good buffet in the other room that deserves my attention much more.”

A grin stole onto Crowley's face. “You're just sayin' that because you can't dance. You angels are losers. It's fun. I could show you.”

As predicted, since Crowley very well knew what angels in general thought of dancing, Aziraphale sniffed. “No, thank you, dear.” He delicately took another sip of wine, this one a little bigger than the last one. “And I don't think it's useless like the other angels may think, let me tell you. I simply don't have found the right kind of dance that suits me.”

Crowley couldn't help but giggle madly at that suddenly, precariously tilting to one side in his slightly tipsy state, and in danger of spilling wine all over himself and – what was worse – over Aziraphale's cream-coloured attire; the angel always got so whiny and bitchy if something happened to that damn clothes of his. 

“I want to be there,” he cackled, “I want to witness your discovery of a millennium. Although I'm not even sure if there _is_ the right kind of dance for you. Ever.”

In response, Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and reached out a little unsteadily to take away Crowley's glass, placing it aside together with his own next to his empty plate. “Maybe we've had enough for tonight. We should probably retire.”

“Lightweight,” Crowley snorted, but, although he wanted the night of their catching up to continue so badly, he obediently followed the angel inside on slightly unsteady legs (which fortunately didn't differ all that much from his usual swaggering step, so he could save face in front of Aziraphale and the court). “Not used to it any more. We shouldn't let so much time go by until we see each other next.”

Ignoring the hardcore remains of the party still on the dance floor, the angel and the demon slipped through the hall and into the corridor, having to clumsily clamber over various drunken bodies whose snoring echoed through the vast corridors.

“Have you been invited to the rising-of-the-king ceremony tomorrow morning as well?” Aziraphale's voice eventually broke the amicable silence between them on their way back to their respective guest quarters (or what Crowley would randomly chose to be his guest quarters since he hadn't really paid any attention when the valet had assigned him some rooms this morning). 

Crowley automatically scrunched up his nose in disgust when he just thought of that gross ritual. “You?”

The angel shrugged. “Jeanne-Antoinette invited me.”

Crowley needed a moment to decipher that “Jeanne-Antoinette” was actually Madame de Pompadour. An ugly little feeling like heartburn rose up in Crowley which he, if he had been sober or simply not in denial, would have identified as jealousy. 

“I had to politely decline, of course,” the angel continued, oblivious. “She was baffled to say it lightly. Declining is probably unheard of.”

Crowley couldn't suppress a snort. “I would have been surprised, and quite frankly very shocked, if you'd cared for watching the king take a dump publicly, and then had to pretend that it's as an honour being allowed to be there.” 

Aziraphale sniffed in agreement. “It's blasphemy, that's what it is. The Almighty has hardly anything to do with enthroning these absolutistic monarchs who are so full of themselves. How dare they use God as an excuse for behaving like snotty, reckless brats while they ruin the rest of their country with their behaviour.” 

Crowley cackled without trying to be all that quiet about it. “Don't let them hear that, angel, or you will find yourself discorporated faster than you can say brioche.”

“Pfft. You will never witness me experiencing an unfortunate discorporation in this country, my dear, mark my words.” Raising his chin loftily, Aziraphale strode on proudly, Crowley following him while still snickering softly. 

Since Aziraphale seemed to know where he was going, Crowley simply followed him through the corridors. He would chose a random set of rooms when they had reached the guest wing and be done with it.

Suspicious noises being carried around a corner should have alerted them. But since the two divine beings, despite their age and experience with living among humans, really hadn't any  _ personal _ experience with what they witnessed when they rounded said corner, they had been therefore unable to identify the tell-tale noises.

They stopped short as they encountered a moving mountain of clothing on the floor, both needing a moment to identify what they had stumbled upon. 

When the woman, buried under the man and a heap of silk and linen and lace, screamed, “Harder”, which echoed through the otherwise empty corridor, Crowley and Aziraphale promptly blushed violently.

Crowley's first thought was turning back, but that wouldn't be conducive in getting to their rooms. And his second thought was, how these people could actually copulate with each other when they were stinking so badly. But, he thought, they all stank, so probably nobody noticed or cared.

Aziraphale's absolutely affronted “Unbelievable” brought Crowley out of his musings again. 

Crowley made a confirming noise, and cocked his head to the side so as if he would be able to see better from that angle (not that he wanted to see better). 

They remained standing next to each other a couple of metres away from the two humans, and simply watched in morbid curiosity. 

The moaning and panting noises, together with the obscenities, became louder, and the man's movements that looked like that of a screwing bunny as he pounded into his partner, became more jerky. All in all, it looked quite ridiculous from the perspective of an outsider, and especially from a supernatural outsider who stood above such things.

“I don't understand what they see in that,” Crowley mused, and he tilted his head to the side even more to see if he could get a new perspective on things like that.

Aziraphale now cocked his head, too. “Well, we haven't been on Earth since yesterday, so we should actually know that humans seem to see something in their copulating.”

“Hm, probably,” Crowley nodded absent-mindedly because, completely against his will, he had to think back to this morning and to Aziraphale's getup; how shockingly flustered Crowley had been about a bit of naked skin (the angel's naked skin, which made all the difference). But he also had to think about how pleasantly warm and comfortable he always felt being close to Aziraphale, no matter which form he had. So, looking at it from that side, Crowley could actually understand or at least have a vague notion of why people were so fond of their coupling. At least the attraction was something he could understand.

_I must be more drunk than I thought to think like that_ , Crowley thought, and he quickly tried to think of something else – rather difficult with those two shagging lovebirds right in front of him. 

“This place is rubbing off on me,” he muttered, and brushed a hand over his face, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. There wasn't anyone here to see his eyes anyway except the two humans, and they didn't quite care right now.

“We should go. It's not decent watching them.” To continue their way, Aziraphale attempted a small, soft step to the side around the humans so that the couple wouldn't be disturbed by them, although they were so caught up in what they were doing, the forces of Hell could have marched past them, they wouldn't have noticed. “Give them some privacy.”

Crowley snorted at that. “They're shaggin' in the corridor, angel. There's no such thing as privacy here.”

“Still. We should go.”

Grunting in agreement, the two slipped past the humans, and were both actually quite glad when, rounding the next two or three corners, the sex noises faded.

At some point, Aziraphale stopped in front of a set of doors that looked exactly like all the other doors they had passed on their way, but the angel seemed quite sure that he had chosen the right doors.

One hand on the golden door handle, Aziraphale turned to face Crowley.

It was rather dark in the corridor, just a few candles inside precious crystal lamps illuminating the place, but Crowley could clearly see the sudden wistfulness that crept into Aziraphale's deer-like eyes. He wondered what was making the angel so gloomy all of a sudden. 

Abruptly, Aziraphale averted his eyes, and, murmuring a soft “Good night, Crowley”, slipped into his room without further ado.

Crowley remained in the corridor, alone, and stared at Aziraphale's closed doors for a couple of minutes rather stupidly, his thoughts racing.

Eventually though, he got moving again, and started looking for an empty set of rooms.

Rubbing a towel (annoyingly conjured up because the French royal court didn't seem to believe in basic necessities like towels) over his face, Crowley lowered the cloth again to stare at his reflection in the mirror hanging over the dresser. He met his own golden-eyed stare contemplatively, and a soft sigh tumbled over his lips.

Making the towel and wash basin disappear again, he tapped over to the huge bed completely nude. The shirts the humans were so fond of that they didn't even take them off for sleeping or bathing if that should happen for once in their life (better not to ask how he knew that) annoyed Crowley. Everything annoyed him at the moment for some reason, everything was too much, too intense, and he was hard pressed not to turn into a serpent and curl up between the at least clean smelling sheets.

He didn't since he had  delayed his next moult for a while now. But if he changed tonight, he would be forced to shed his skin immediately. Never a nice experience. It could wait for a bit longer. Maybe until he was back in Hell the next time so that he could arrange it so that Hastur or Ligur tripped over his shed skin. They hated that.

Grinning slightly, Crowley slid between the sheets. The soft, cool linen felt good on his bare skin, and he sighed pleasantly. 

For a while, he lay completely still until eventually, he wondered what Aziraphale was doing since the angel normally didn't really sleep. Probably reading.

It was a huge mistake to start thinking about the angel, he realised, since he couldn't stop now any more. 

But since Crowley was all alone, he probably could admit it for once in his existence. That he had... feelings for Aziraphale. And not only since this morning when he'd been confronted with the new and admittedly thrilling sight of seeing Aziraphale in a woman's body – That's silly. He was a demon, he didn't think in the same categories the humans did. He didn't care which gender Aziraphale took, he was perfect in every form.

There it was again. That warm feeling he always felt when he was near the angel (except for the times Aziraphale was an incredibly bitchy bastard, but even then Crowley couldn't be mad at him all that long, much to his displeasure).

Deep down, he knew what it  _really_ meant, even if he couldn't admit to it, not even to himself. It was too dangerous.

But there was this other feeling. A feeling that had accompanied him his whole stay here. Lust. Attraction. Crowley was no stranger to these feelings. A couple of times in his long stay here on Earth, he had felt something like lust for a human without ever doing something about it though. And even more times, he had felt that lust for Aziraphale. Had always felt it in the moments he saw the angel again for the first time in years, sometimes centuries. When he looked into his big, trusting eyes, the wind softly playing with those white-blond curls of hair so that Crowley was always tempted to see if Aziraphale's hair was as soft as it looked like, if it was as soft as his wings – he didn't know what those felt like; touching someone else's wings was incredibly private and intimate, and a no-go to do so without their  permission.

He shuddered when he thought of Aziraphale's snow-white wings, of touching them, and he curled up into a tight ball under the sheets, hugging his upper body, and clawing his fingers into his biceps to keep them from slipping down to touch other parts of his body that were stirring rapidly at his thoughts about the angel. 

But he couldn't help himself. Every time Crowley looked at Aziraphale, he wanted to tear off the mostly fine, cream-coloured or white clothes he preferred no matter the fashion, and wanted to hug him. Wanted to caress that soft yet strong body (Crowley should know, he'd fought him once during king Arthur's reign, and, completely unexpected, lost rather spectacularly) as gently as their lose, formless robes of the ancient times had been allowed to play around the angel's silhouette, touching him, caressing him. Damn robes. Crowley had been so jealous back then, even if he only now could admit to it being jealousy or identify it as such. Still was, to be honest. The more form-fitting fashions of recent times weren't helping to rein in his imaginations any, too, since they revealed so much more of the angel's shape than the clothes of the Romans had, of the  Mesopotamians or even those fanciless sacks of cloth (probably a joined idea from Gabriel and Beelzebub, the unimaginative losers) they had both worn at their first meeting high up on that wall surrounding a now lost garden.

A small sound like a whine and a sob escaped Crowley, and he pulled his right hand away as if burned when he realised that it had sneaked down his body without  consent to give his aching body some relief.

He took a couple of deep breaths through his nose as he forced all conscious thoughts of Aziraphale from his mind. 

It would be wrong. They could never...

Furiously denying himself and his feelings, Crowley fell into a restless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When he arrived at breakfast the next morning, Crowley didn't see Aziraphale. Just the once when he saw a bright shock of white-blond hair passing the open doors to the next room; since Aziraphale seemed a close confidant and friend of Madame Pompadour now, he obviously had been invited to dine with the elites, even together with the king. Crowley hadn't been granted such privileges (not that he wanted them in the first place, the only thing he wanted was to have breakfast with the angel, not some stupid human king and his entourage, not even if that meant getting closer to his assignment), so that he was forced to have breakfast with the other nobles who didn't stand in such high regard with the royal family. Since Aziraphale wasn't here so that Crowley could watch him eat, he didn't even know why he was doing this to himself. He wouldn't eat anything anyway, and, to make matters worse, was currently at the mercy of the very chatty lady to his right. That idea from last night of turning into a giant serpent became more and more appealing again. 

Not even Casanova was here to safe Crowley from his miserable situation.

Oh right, he remembered. The man was a traitor, and had dared to make passes at the angel. He didn't want to be saved by him.

Huffing, Crowley stuffed a piece of brioche into his mouth out of frustration, wondering what the angel saw in the pastry.

After breakfast, all the nobles of the court spread out through the various rooms of the palace and into the gardens for relaxation. Chattering mindlessly, playing games or taking leisure strolls through the park.

Ignoring his man for now, Crowley stayed close to Aziraphale instead; at least where he could see him. When he wasn't with Madame de Pompadour – and he was steadfastly ignoring the churning feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight –, talking to her or hunched over with both their noses stuck in a book, which was probably the reason why the two got along so fabulously. She was a well-known patron of the fine arts as well as a collector of rare books after all, so no wonder Aziraphale took to her like a... whatever took to water... yeah, ducks, like a duck to water, anyway, when he wasn't with her, Crowley saw him stalking the boy that was his assignment. Aziraphale seemed to have as much problems as Crowley did, though, especially now that he was back in his male form. Even from afar, Crowley could see how absolutely uninterested the boy was in the older, prim-looking man that seemed no fun at all if you didn't know him really well.

His assumptions were confirmed when, around noon, he brought Aziraphale a plate with food from the huge buffet table that had been set up outside for all the people being in the gardens. The angel gifted him with the brightest, sweetest of smiles when Crowley appeared with the food, and the frustrated crease between his brows, which was what had prompted Crowley to cheer the angel up with the food in the first place, disappeared for a while as Aziraphale tucked in.

Sitting together under the shade of a tree, Crowley watched Aziraphale munch away on his snacks. The noises stayed decent for once.

“He's so difficult,” Aziraphale complained instead. “He doesn't want to have anything to do with me.” He frowned, and stuck out his lower lip. “He thinks I'm boring.”

“He tell you that, yeah?” Crowley chuckled softly.

“Right to my face, that brat,” Aziraphale confirmed, annoyed. 

Crowley very wisely (again) didn't comment on the fact that changing gender probably hadn't been conducive to the assignment at all. But disregarding that, Crowley was glad that Aziraphale had changed back since that kept him safe from people like Casanova, and right now, in this horrible place, Crowley really preferred the familiar. 

Aziraphale threw an openly longing gaze in the direction of the palace where a couple of ladies had seated themselves at a group of little white garden stools and tables, white, frilly parasols clutched in their hands. One of them was Madame the Pompadour. 

“It would be so much easier if she were my assignment,” Aziraphale sighed wistfully. “She's such a nice woman, and all the ill tongues spreading bad things about her are just jealous. But she's somehow sad, don't you think?”

Briefly, Aziraphale looked at Crowley without actually expecting an answer since he continued right away. “She told me that she's waiting for the return of a very special friend who's been gone now for a long time. But he promised her to return. Isn't that tragically romantic.” Aziraphale cheered up all of a sudden again. “Oh, and she has such excellent, even a bit progressive taste in art and quite a remarkable love for books, did you know?”

“Yeah,” Crowley grumbled testily, “I did.”

“She showed me her library in her personal apartments. It's very lovely. Lately, I have to admit – much to my shame – that I've neglected my quest for rare books somewhat, but her dedication and love encouraged me anew.”

“Great.”

“Here, I have to show you something,” Aziraphale continued, suddenly completely giddy, and Crowley wondered if, had he continued his acquaintance (infatuation) with Casanova, he would have turned into a gibbering groupy as well. He was puzzled out of his sore mood when Aziraphale shoved his right hand into Crowley's face, wriggling his pinky where he wore his signet ring. “See that,” he asked rhetorically, and snatched his hand back again without Crowley having seen anything. Fondly, and with a truly happy smile on his face, Aziraphale looked down onto his ring, touching it proudly. Taking a closer look, Crowley realised it did seem different somehow. Aziraphale looked up into Crowley's eyes again, the happy smile on his face almost turning, well, angelic and peaceful. “She's quite a renowned gemstone engraver, and out of the blue, she gifted me this stone she engraved just for me.”

Despite mad jealousy suddenly flaring up in Crowley, he took a closer look at the new stone adorning Aziraphale's ring. But apart from noticing that it was of a dark green, mottled colour, Crowley couldn't make out what had been engraved onto the smoothly polished surface.

“It's a diopsine, it's the stone of love and friendship. Quite fitting for an angel, don't you think? What with us being creatures of love.”

The only answer Crowley had to that was a grumble.

“Oh, and you know what!”

Aziraphale's sudden turn in mood back into a giddy teenage-girl made Crowley jump.

“What?”

He couldn't help if his voice started sounding a little exasperated.

“She invited me to one of her performances in her private theatre here in the palace. She's playing the lead. I heard she's a very good actress. And she asked me to invite you as well. Would you like to accompany me?”

Crowley returned Aziraphale's wide, pleadingly hopeful gaze, and eventually, he started to squirm under that gaze. 

Sniffing grumpily, he finally shook his head. “Nah, angel,” he replied testily. “Not really my scene.”

Although he knew that it wasn't true, Aziraphale didn't push him, but Crowley saw how the angel's face fell in sad disappointment. He felt bad almost instantly. But he simply couldn't accompany him to that performance. Just hearing about this unexpected friendship of the angel to that human woman was painful enough. He was sure that Aziraphale would never talk about Crowley that enthusiastically and fondly (if there had been anyone in Aziraphale's life who he could have told about their acquaintance, that is).

Awkward silence descended over them for a couple of moments, and eventually, Crowley thought it best to steer their conversation back to their original topic: their assignments.

“By the way, I'm at a dead end with my assignment, too,” he eventually admitted to cheer Aziraphale up by wallowing in mutual misery, and also to get his own mounting frustrations off his chest. He cocked his head contemplatively. “Maybe we would be more successful if we switched assignments.”

Aziraphale, apparently not dwelling on his disappointment of Crowley's rejection, frowned at the suggestion. “Why?”

“Because your brat suits my character better, and my saint is better suited to you.”

“Hmm... I see what you mean.” Tilting his head questioningly, Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “Do you really think that could work?”

“Sure. At least we w ould get a foot in their respective d oors.”

Aziraphale seemed to actually contemplate Crowley's  proposal , but eventually, much to Crowely's frustration, he shook his head. 

“It would be like cheating,” he decided, ignoring Crowley's “As if we've never cheated before” adamantly. “And honestly, Crowley,  _ you _ wanted a  challenge . There you have it. It would do us both some good to work a little harder for our goals.”

“That coming from you of all people,” Crowley snorted sarcastically, and eyed the angel – the embodiment of creature comforts and laziness – from head to toe.

Pursing his lips primly, Aziraphale looked away. 

“All right,” Crowley eventually relented even if he thought that they could spend more time together if they finished their assignments quickly. “Would actually be a little embarrassing if we fail because we don't have it any more, don't ya think.”

“Exactly.”

“Hmpf. 'S a good distraction from what's going on in this den of iniquity. My head's starting to pound something fierce from all these vices. Whoever said there is no too much of a good thing is a liar.”

“Oh, my poor dear,” Aziraphale cooed, a little teasingly, but also earnestly compassionate. Crowley felt better already when the angel reached out to mockingly caress his cheek, and he had to keep himself in check not to lean into the touch. 

“Well then, angel,” he said, hastily scrambling up from their resting place abruptly. Aziraphale blinked up at him, startled. “Then I'd better get back to my man, don't you think.”

“Ehm... yes, of course. Ah, then, thank you for the lunch.”

“Don't thank me,” Crowley snapped while already walking away, quickly leaving a puzzled angel behind before he could say or do something he would regret for the sake of their friendship.

Crowley did not, in fact, seek out his assignment, but decided to take a walk in a remote area of the park, far away from nosy and noisy people. 

The peace and quiet were a balm to his soul, and he even felt the pounding headache drain out of him. He really should get a move on and get out of here. This place sucked.

After wandering about for a while, he made his way back to the palace. By now, it was mid-afternoon, judging by the position of the sun, and he hoped that most of the courtiers had sought shelter from the heat inside the palace.

Indeed, he didn't encounter many people, but, of course, the one human Crowley crossed ways with had to be...

“My friend!” Casanova called from afar when he spotted Crowley, and he quickened his steps somewhat to reach the demon. “It's good to see you.”

Crowley made a peevish noise, but somehow didn't seem to be immune against the brilliant smile the man threw him. Therefore, the vitriolic answer that had sat at the tip of his tongue evaporated again.

“Where have you been?”

“Walking.”

“Oh. I had hoped that you'd maybe like to accompany me on a ride through the park.”

Crowley wanted to decline, very adamantly so, but somehow, a couple of minutes later, he found himself on the back of a horse. He actually had no idea how that had happened. The power of that man's charming smile and pleading big eyes were a weapon without equal. Crowley didn't even like him (any more).

Since he didn't want to show any weakness in front of the human by copping out now, it was no use, Crowley was stuck on this stupid beast with Giacomo bloody Casanova by his side for the time being. Uncomfortably, he shifted around on the horse's back. Still a major design fault.

For the sake of his buttocks, Crowley worked a minor demonic miracle, cushioning the saddle discretely. 

He sighed in relief. Much better.

While they steered their horses through the park, he let Casanova talk about trivialities since he wasn't really in the mood to have a conversation with the man. Bad enough that he was stuck here with him. Actually talking to him would be a bit much. 

“Is there someone?”

Only listening with half an ear, Crowley perked up at the question. For the first time since their ride began, he looked at Casanova.

“Excuse me?”

“I just wanted to know if you have someone in your life? A sweetheart.”

Pursing his lips, Crowley stared at the man, reserved. “Why would you think so?”

“Because you're a bit tetchy. Had a fight?”

Crowley actually growled, making the horses nervous for a moment. “'S not because of them.”

The young man cocked his head, and scrutinised Crowley intensely. He frowned as he thought about Crowley's words, and suddenly, his eyes widened as he seemed to have an epiphany. “Oh bugger. Don't tell me I...”

Crowley could only grumble at that in the affirmative.

“My friend, I... Please forgive me my transgression,” Casanova pleaded with him, his big, dark blue eyes begging Crowley to forgive him. His desperate remorse seemed honest to Crowley, and he felt mollified a bit against his will. “Tell me who she is, and I will steer clear of her. Because, you have to believe me, my friend, I don't do things like that. Not to friends.” 

He turned a bit in his saddle, and reached out to place his hand onto Crowley's lower arm, effectively stopping demon and horse for a moment. Reluctantly, Crowley peeked at Casanova discretely from behind his glasses.

“I know what it's like to lose the one you love to another.”

Becoming flustered all of a sudden, Crowley startled, and the horse, sensing its master's agitation, reared back a few steps. With a sharp, mental rebuke, Crowley brought the beast under control, but he couldn't look at Casanova any more.

“It's no' like that,” he grumbled. “Between us, I mean. We've simply been friends for ages.”

Cocking his head, Casanova frowned. “Why don't I believe you, Crowley.”

The demon shrugged stroppily, and still wouldn't look at the man. “How should I know?”

Once more, Casanova placed his hand onto Crowley's arm, and squeezed encouragingly.

“Don't let false pride be your ruin. I lost my Henrietta to my nemesis, but you can make it work between you and your lady. If it's just doubts that's keeping you back, then you just have to take heart and tell her.”

Hesitantly peeking at the human from the corner of his eye, Crowley shrugged awkwardly. “I don't even know if they feel the same. I mean, I think there is attraction, but... By the way, what do you all like about this coupling so much?” he demanded, looking at Casanova intently.

Puzzled, Casanova tilted his head in Crowley's direction. “We?”

“You humans.”

Blinking at him, completely perplex, Casanova snorted eventually. “You're a funny man.”

Crowley scrunched up his nose, disgruntled.

“But alright.” Casanova shrugged when he answered readily, “It feels good, of course, but you already knew that.”

An involuntary whine got stuck in Crowley's throat, and he didn't correct the human that, no, he didn't know that. Not really. Touching your own corporation for pleasure and/or curiosity occasionally didn't count.

The human shrugged again. “But for me, it's not just the intercourse. The women I sleep with are important to me, too. I value them, listen to them, to their thoughts and dreams – a fundamental lesson I learned very early on.”

Crowley snorted. “Do you want to tell me that you  _ loved _ all these women? That they weren't just carnal conquests for you?”

“Exactly. I've had many, yes, but still, I loved them all.”

Pondering that, Crowley gently steered his horse on, continuing their ride. It sounded ridiculous, loving that many people. But suddenly, his earlier observations made sense; Casanova really wasn't destined for Hell despite his many lovers because he  _ really _ had loved all of them. Crowley believed him because it was so plausible. That man had to offer love in abundance. No wonder Heaven wanted to have him; their bunch loved... well... love.

But could what Casanova had so wisely said help him with his own situation (if there even was a situation that needed to be taken care of)? 

Listening to Aziraphale? Already did that. 

Valuing him? Been there done that. Still doing that.

Conquering him...

Crowley sucked in a sharp breath. What was he thinking? Monopolising Giacomo Casanova's methods for himself and applying them to Aziraphale. Pfft.

He didn't want the angel like tha... Okay, yeah, he should really stop deluding himself. He wanted him. Like that and in every other way possible as well.

But although there was something between them, always had been, Crowley couldn't imagine that the angel would be susceptible for the other things Casanova had talked about. Carnal pleasures.  _ Him _ , Crowley, being  _ responsible _ for causing the angel lust. No. Impossible. Aziraphale may not be as clueless as other angels in those regards simply because he had lived on Earth for the last thousands of years, but that was different from  _ doing _ it. Angels were even worse than demons in these aspects – excluding Hastur who wasn't only totally clueless about modern inventions but about all things concerning the human body, too. He probably didn't even know the difference between men and women...

Anyway. It had to be this place making him feel like that, making him feel this sudden restless yearning when the angel was near. He'd always felt it, but in over five thousand years, he had been able to control it rather well. Here and now, Crowley seemed helpless to control anything, not his emotions and not his corporation. Maybe these grounds were cursed, affecting even celestial and infernal beings (Aziraphale shouldn't think that Crowley hadn't noticed the  _ looks _ when he thought the demon was distracted, but since Crowley had  _ never _ noticed Aziraphale looking at him like that, it had to be, indeed, this place's fault that made them do it). Yes, that had to be it. As soon as they were far away from here, their relationship would go back to what it had been before; save and platonic. Just business with occasionally having lunch or meeting at theatre performances purely by chance. 

Right. 

When he emerged from his frantic musings again, Crowley noticed that they were already on their way back, almost there in fact. Casanova was quiet by his side, and Crowley sensed instinctively that the man had kept quiet this whole time because he knew that there were some things Crowley had to think about. Good man.

Dismounting, they handed over the reins to two stable boys that had come running when they'd seen the two nobles return. 

“I forgive you, by the way,” was the last thing Crowley said to Casanova before he hastily left, trying to escape from the human (his friend?) and his own human, soft emotions.

In the evening, when he reunited with Aziraphale after dinner, the tension between them from this noon had dissipated. Fortunately. Instead, angel and demon joined all the other puzzled, excited courtiers that were waiting for a surprise that had been promised to them. 

Crowley squirmed a bit being cooped up in the Hall of Mirrors with all these heavily perfumed humans (at least the women's voluminous dresses made sure that there was a little space between people). He felt his headache returning, but he couldn't deny that he was as curious as the humans, therefore, he stayed.

“Do you know what they have planned?”

Crowley shook his head at Aziraphale's soft question, and continued to regard his surroundings closely. 

“Earlier today,” Aziraphale then murmured hesitantly, “I saw you riding out with Casanova.”

Crowley froze as if he had been caught out at something bad.

He cleared his throat, and tried to appear nonchalant.

“Yeah, ehm, so? Business talk.” 

Aziraphale chuckled annoyingly knowingly, and he leaned in closer conspiratorially. “If I didn't know better, my dear, I'd say you've found yourself a friend.”

Crowley bristled at that, and threw Aziraphale an affronted look. “Don't be ridiculous, angel.”

He practically sensed Aziraphale's fond, smug smile, but fortunately, the angel didn't comment any further. And in that moment, one of the king's underlings or whoever that was stepped forth to announce the surprise of the evening.

Turned out it was a choir. A boys' choir from Rome that would accompany Angelo Bernadotti, one of the most sought after castrati at the moment, and a protégé of the Pope. 

While wild applause and many appreciative Oohs and Aahs echoed through the hall, Crowley took a closer look at the boys. Half of them were castrati, too; their auras, which should have been pure for boys their age, were tainted and violently fragmented because of what had happened to them. Wasn't the church supposed to put a stop to the practise of castrating children? At least that was what Crowley had heard lately.

Huffing and crossing his arms in front of his chest, Crowley leaned back against a convenient pillar he was standing next to, and settled in to listen when the boys began to sing, and, mere moments later, Bernadotti, too. 

“This is disgusting,” Aziraphale hissed quietly so that only Crowley could hear him with his supernatural hearing. “These poor children.”

So, the angel had seen it in their auras as well.

“Y ou do remember they're coming straight from Rome, do ya?” he replied a little snidely. “That's the Pope's  _personal_ choir in case you haven't listened.” And to drive his point home, he continued, “ _Your_ head guy here on Earth who is, in all his holiness, supposed to protect these children.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “You can't say that,” he snapped, suddenly rather irritable. “Heaven is  _not_ responsible for the things the Christians do here on Earth, do I make myself clear?”

Crowley snorted, but didn't call the angel out on his naivety.

“But I have to admit...” And here, Aziraphale started to squirm uncomfortably. “The singing is really very beautiful.”

“Yeah.” Crowley couldn't help but agree. It was beautiful despite the tragedy that caused it. He literally sensed the celestial power the singing created unwittingly, and it made him jittery and queasy. But he didn't tell Aziraphale who was pissed off already that Crowley blamed Heaven for brutally castrating innocent little boys to preserve their singing voice. Telling him that the divine singing almost caused him to puke wouldn't go over so well right now. 

Wrapped in a shockingly uneasy silence, they continued to listen to the music.

When it was over, Crowley slipped away without talking to Aziraphale again.

He had to get out of here. Not just the palace; the park wouldn't be enough this time. 

Therefore, Crowley marched right into the stables, and nicked a small, sleek carriage and two horses – no idea who they belonged to, and he really didn't care anyway.

Enjoying the fresh, cool wind whipping around his face when he urged the horses to go faster and faster over the uneven, cobbled street, Crowley arrived in Paris late in the evening.

By the time he stalked the streets of Paris looking for a suitable pub, he had calmed down somewhat. He was still restless, mind, but being so far away from the court, from his assignment, and from Aziraphale helped. He couldn't leave his feelings behind, too, but at least he could get a little perspective on them with a little distance between them. 

As the evening wore on, he had felt as if he was slowly suffocating. The sour, bitchy mood between them that seemed to overcome them both lately in each other's presence was getting to him. Sure, they were bickering and teasing each other constantly when they met, but at the moment, it seemed a little excessive; it upset Crowley's stomach to be at odds with the angel. Maybe they were both simply stressed because of their taxing assignments.

Paris was a smelly place, too, as was almost every big human settlement, really. But the acidic feeling twisting his insides because of the overpowering decadence at Versailles as well as the dull headache caused by the smell and especially the heavy perfumes people insisted on dousing themselves in were gone for now. It wasn't really a durable solution for his stay there to constantly go outside for some fresh air or seek out Aziraphale's proximity to clear his olfactory senses since the angel smelled fresh and pure and of orange blossoms. That way, he'd have to stay forever at the palace to get his assignment done. 

The strong alcohol he started consuming in a rather seedy pub etched away any sense of smell inside his nose so that the bad odours of the patrons surrounding Crowley didn't faze him any more for the time being.

But just after a few glasses, he regretted his plan to get drunk already. He'd rather drink together with Aziraphale, and he bemoaned being so bitchy with each other (not that it was his fault alone, but Aziraphale wasn't here to feel guilty, too, so it was up to Crowley to feel remorse). 

From now on, for the duration of their stay at Versailles, he'd try to not needle the angel so much. 

Yeah. Good plan. 

They could have lunch or dinner to seal that truce, and then they could finally get drunk together.

Grunting, Crowley left the pub behind abruptly, and instead wandered the by now rather quiet streets of Paris, more sober than he would have liked. 

When, eventually, he paid attention again to where he was going, Crowley had come to a stop right in front of a crêperie, closed at this time of the night of course. He looked up at the simple wooden sign over the shop, then into the window, but there was only darkness inside which not even his serpent eyes could pierce. 

It was like fate had led him here, wasn't it? He simply  _ had _ to take Aziraphale here, he would love it. This place was perfect for burying their quarrel.

Yes. Once again, great plane. He seemed to be on a roll tonight regarding great plans. 

Huffing in satisfaction, Crowley continued on his way, looking for a street sign so that he would find his way back here when the time was right. 

Since he was looking up at the house walls for some sort of marker to orientate himself on, he didn't notice the figure rushing around the corner.

Man and demon let out grunting noises when they ran into each other, but still managed to stay standing.

“Oh, Monsieur Casanova!” the man cried, and all Crowley could do at that was blinking in irritation. Why the heck was everyone mistaking him for Casanova? He had to think back to Aziraphale's words, but Crowley still didn't see any similarities.

“'M not Casanova,” he growled, and the young man took a careful step back.

“Ah, I see now. Forgive me for the mistake. But... I've seen you at court, haven't I?” The man cocked his head questioningly, swaying a bit on his feet at the move, and Crowley could smell the alcohol on him.

Crowley now took a closer look himself, and realised that it was the young man that had been assigned to Aziraphale. 

What was his name? Crowley hadn't asked the angel that, frankly not interested. He could be glad if he remembered  _ his _ man's name. 

He'd simply call the boy Frances... or was that a girl's name? 

Who cared. Frances it was.

“Ehm, yes. Quite right.”

“Knew I've seen that hair before.” The youth grinned suddenly. “You've caused quite the stir with your looks. The ladies' are all swooning over you, and are, frankly, pretty jealous of your hair.”

Crowley had to grin at that very smugly, and was just glad the angel wasn't here to hear this or reprimand him for being so vain, the little hypocrite.

“Why're you here?” Frances continued, looking Crowley over curiously. Nosy little brat, but nonetheless, Crowley found himself answering readily since he was suddenly in the mood for some company. He'd have to make do with the boy if he couldn't have Aziraphale.

He shrugged. “Getting out of Versailles,” he replied casually. “It's so...”

“Oppressive?”

Crowley eyed the boy over the rim of his glasses. “Among other things, yeah.”

“I needed a change of scenery, too. Getting some drinking done without all the polite company,” Frances supplied without being asked.

“I noticed that,” Crowley smirked. The youth only shrugged.

Crowley didn't know why, the boy had nothing on Casanova's charm, but a couple of minutes later, he found himself in another pub, drinking with Frances. Could be that he simply pitied the boy. For all his boisterous behaviour back in Versailles, he now seemed rather gloomy. And if Aziraphale wasn't here to have an open ear for the boy as was probably expected of him if he was supposed to lead the boy into Heaven's clutches, then Crowley could probably be there for him just as well. 

A couple of glasses into their new drinking-relationship, Crowley cringed uneasily as a sudden thought came to him: He should really take the boy home. If he continued drinking with him through the night, he ran the risk of plunging Frances even more into sin which would make Aziraphale's task even harder. Worst case, Crowley could unwittingly undo any progress Aziraphale had already made with the boy. 

He couldn't allow that to happen. It was part of their Arrangement. Putting obstacles in each other's way for fun was okay, but thwarting their respective assignments was off-limits.

Crowley didn't even want to think what Aziraphale would do to him if he realised Crowley had corrupted the boy even more.

The demon cringed.

No, thank you.

Maybe he could try talking to Frances to at least restore the status quo from before their running into each other... and maybe he should take away his drink first.

He should probably take him out of this pub altogether. 

Since Frances had become rather pliant with the alcohol he had already consumed, he didn't even protest much when Crowley steered him out of the pub so that they now found themselves back in the dark streets of Paris.

Right. So far, so good. 

“Oh no, not you, too,” Frances started to complain suddenly, sounding like the spoilt brat he was.

“What are you talkin' about?” Crowley hissed irritably while he tried to decide in which direction they should go.

Frances snorted inelegantly. “Trying to make me  _ better _ .”

A distasteful sneer contorted the boy's features. 

Distractedly, Crowley snorted. “Believe me, I'm probably the only one  _ not _ doing that.”

“Yeah, sure.” Grunting, Frances plopped down onto a narrow step leading up to a random house's front door. Taking in a deep breath although the house entrance didn't smell all that great, Frances leaned back against cold stone, and looked up at Crowley wistfully. The demon hoped the boy wasn't a weepy drunk. 

“My parents don't care about me at all,” the boy started, petulance and sadness mixing in his voice.

_ Oh Satan, there we go _ , Crowley thought, now miserable himself. 

“They let me do whatever I want, but in reality, they think I'm a waste of space.”

Ah, that explained it. No wonder the boy was a spoilt brat. And he was an aristocrat as well. That made it worse. Poor people didn't have the means to become spoilt brats.

Stemming his hands into his hips, Crowley looked down on to the boy, assessing him critically. “And that's giving you the excuse to live up to your bad reputation?” he asked snidely. 

Frances frowned, puzzled. “Well... yes.”

Crowley snorted again. “Marvellous. 'M so glad I never reproduced.”

That made the boy bristle, and he glared up at Crowley, then thought better of it, and struggled up so he could stand on eye level with the demon. He stuck out a single finger to poke Crowley in the chest with it. “Do you know how much that sucks?!” he demanded. “Your parents not caring enough about you that they allow you to do everything you want just to get you out of their hair, but then telling you what a disappointment you are?”

Putting it like that, Crowley had to cringe uneasily, and he didn't even bite off the boy's head of for poking his sharp finger into Crowley's chest. Once more feeling sorry for Frances, Crowley actually attempted to comfort him when he felt a surprising connection to him all of a sudden. 

“Well,” he tried awkwardly, “I actually know what it's like when your father figure drops you like a hot brick.” 

Satan and Hell, he was so bad at this. 

Frances, though, startled at that, and he scrutinised Crowley closely, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. Crowley saw the suspicion bleed out of the boy's eyes, and suddenly could make out something like hope in them.

“You really do?”

“Yeah,” the demon answered clumsily, and evaded the boy's searching gaze. “'S been a long time ago, I've coped with it by now. Left them behind. But I can tell you, it really sucks being disowned by your own family, so, well-meant advice, don't let it come that far.”

The boy's lower lip wobbled for an alarming second, and Crowley wondered what he had done to deserve this. Surely Falling had been enough for his alleged transgressions.

“But... what am I supposed to do?” Frances whined petulantly, actually hopelessly, but fortunately, the tears didn't fall. Yet. 

“Show them that you're worth much more than they think,” Crowley hissed sternly.

“That's the problem,” Frances shot back. “My father wants me to become an advocat, but, honestly, I'm not that intelligent.”

Crowley frowned. He had to actually agree with Frances. From what he'd seen until now, the boy really wasn't all that intelligent. But somehow, Crowley thought that he may be clever nonetheless, cunning, and that was something they could work with. Intelligence wasn't everything.

Sighing heavily, Crowley placed an arm around the boy's shoulders – something he'd never have done if he had been more sober; touching humans wasn't his thing –, and started pulling him in the direction where Crowley thought he had left his carriage.

“Proposal. We sober up now, and tomorrow...” He thought about it for a second. “And tomorrow I'll introduce you to a friend of mine. He can help you.”

Uff, that was close. He'd almost saddled himself with Aziraphale's assignment because he was much too soft. Now that the first step had been taken, Crowley could hand the boy over to Aziraphale with a clear consciousness.

Traipsing along obediently next to Crowley, Frances raised hopeful, drunken eyes to the demon. “Really?” A hint of doubt still coloured the boy's voice. “How can he help me?”

“He's... kinda clever. And it's his job to help people. No buts, boy. Shall I... give you a lift? My carriage's not far. I think.”

“Nah, thanks. I've left my horse around here somewhere.”

A disgusted shudder rippled through the demon. “I hate horses. Hard on the buttocks.”

Although unintended, the comment brought a smile to Frances' face. Crowley smirked, satisfied that he...

At that moment, a terrified, shrill scream interrupted Crowley. It echoed through the still night, then, everything was quiet again.

Their heads snapped around so they could look at each other, wide-eyed.

_ Am I supposed to do something about this? _ Crowley thought anxiously.  _ I'm still a bloody demon after all. _

And in Frances' wide eyes he recognised a similar insecurity; that he was an aristocrat, was he supposed to do something about whatever was happening there?

They held eye contact for a scant moment longer, then, human and demon sprinted off to where they had heard the scream.

The two stopped short when they encountered two men who had pressed a struggling woman against a wall. There was no mistaking what they intended to do to her.

Next to Crowley, Frances made a choked off noise, and when Crowley peeked at him from the corner of his eye, he saw naked horror in the youth's eyes. A rough awakening for him to stumble into the real world like that, and Crowley felt sorry for him. He may be a ladies' man, but Crowley was sure that Frances would never make advances on a woman to take her against her will. 

Before Crowley could react in any way to the situation, Frances suddenly let out an enraged shout, and rushed up to the two men, throwing himself into their midst with full force.

For a moment, he gained the upper hand, and managed to get a few punches in with the two men who had been taken by surprise by his sudden appearance, but when Crowley saw that one of the men was drawing a knife from his belt, the demon knew he had to interfere. Using his demonic speed, it took him but the blink of an eye to be next to the man. He grabbed the wrist holding the knife high above Frances' back to stab him, and wrenched the man's arm onto his back. The knife clattered to the ground, and the assailant cried out in pain. He struggled in Crowley's grip, but stood no chance against a demon. Furiously, Crowley spun the man around, and ripped off his sunglasses. He stared at the human, knowing that his eyes, even in the relative darkness, would glow in a menacing yellow. “I would get out of here asss long assss I could, human,” he hissed, and flitted out his suddenly forked tongue, tasting the man's sudden terror in the air.

Staring wide-eyed at the demon holding tightly on to him, the man began to struggle again, this time clearly with the intention to flee rather than attack. Squeezing his wrist once more for good measure, Crowley let go of the man who wasted no time to escape from the demon as fast as he could. 

When Crowley next turned his attention back to Frances and the other would-be-rapist, he was surprised to see that the boy, scrawny as he may seem, had knocked the other man out cold. With a satisfied huff, Frances let the limb form of the man slump to the ground.

“Huh,” Crowley made, impressed. Before he could say something to the boy though, Frances turned to the terrified woman cowering against the wall.

“Are you alright, Mademoiselle?” Frances asked, concerned, and advanced on her carefully. 

Hastily scrambling to her feet, the young woman nodded shakily.

“T-thank you, Messieurs, thank you so much.”

Crowley noticed Frances actually blushing under the woman's honest and relieved gratefulness.

“Oh, well. That was nothing,” the boy mumbled. “We'll accompany you home, yeah?”

Gratefully, she nodded, still very shaken. She led the way out of the gloomy side-street with Frances following eagerly before Crowley could even protest about taking the woman home. But, oh well, he supposed it was the  _ right _ thing to do. He'd tell no one about it.

It wasn't far to the woman's home, and expressing her thanks again and again excessively, she finally went inside, leaving Crowley alone with the boy.

The boy's heavy, still agitated breathing was the only sound in the otherwise silent night surrounding them. For a moment, neither knew what to say.

“That... ehm. You did good back there,” Crowley eventually managed to get out, awkwardly and highly uncomfortable, but he forced the words out since it was the truth, and the boy deserved some praise, even if it came from a demon whom he didn't even really know.

Frances perked up, and stared at Crowley with wide, hopeful eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah. Quite... quite good.”

Crowley could practically see the boy thriving right before the demon's eyes, the sudden, unexpected boost to his self esteem somehow letting the boy appear taller, prouder, more mature. It was dreadfully sad that the first person who'd ever seemed to believe in that young man or give him some praise was a demon of all people.

“You know what,” Frances said, bouncing beside Crowley like an excited puppy. He reached out in excitement to grab Crowley's upper arm firmly, making him wince. “I will become a soldier.”

“A what!?”

“A soldier.” Frances drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height. “I can do that. I can  _ protect _ people.”

The boy's face was almost glowing as he planned his future right here in a dark alley in night-time Paris. A future where he would be respected, where he could do good (in all honesty, Crowley would never have thought that the noble brat cared about doing  _ good _ ), where he could show his parents that he was worth something. And oh so slowly, Crowley felt the boy's aura change. He, as an occult being, could sense if a person was being influenced for either Heaven or Hell. And this boy was, without a doubt, slithering right into Heaven's court with no return ticket.

That was good, wasn't it? Well, it was good for Aziraphale.

“Absolutely,” Crowley confirmed, deciding that it couldn't probably hurt to encourage the boy a bit more. “You should do that. It's an, eh, honourable career. You can do a lot of... good. And you're an aristocrat, you'll be an officer automatically. Ya know, there's a lot of bad soldiers can do, but you can make it better. You can lead your men to be the best.”

Uff, what an exhausting speech. All that talking about doing good...

“Yes, I will do that! I promise!” Frances beamed excitedly, his cheeks glowing with happiness and pride.

Once more, tears gathered in the boy's eyes, although they were tears of joy this time – that didn't mean that Crowley was even less horrified about them, mind you.

His heart almost came to a stand-still when the euphoric youth surged forward abruptly to pull Crowley into a crushing embrace. Shocked into immobility, Crowley stood rigidly in the boy's arms, and waited for it to be over.

His relieved sigh when Frances pulled back eventually got stuck in his throat when the boy beamed at him once more, and then leaned in to press a wet kiss on Crowley's cheeks each like the French were wont to do lately. 

Then, abruptly, he was gone like a blur, racing down the street. 

“I have to go now!” he called back over his shoulder. “Talk to my parents. Thank you so much!”

And then, he was gone, Crowley was left standing completely alone as if all dressed and with nowhere to go. 

“Hgn,” he eventually said into the darkness. “That went probably well.”

Shaking his head, still completely befuddled about what had happened tonight, Crowley turned around to slowly trudge back to where he'd left his carriage – wherever that was, but at least he didn't have to worry about the horses and carriage being stolen since he'd placed a demonic spell over them; he wasn't born six-thousand years ago, after all. 

Swinging himself onto the coachman's seat when he eventually located his vehicle again, Crowley quickly told the horses to find their way back on their own. He had some thinking to do. With his arms crossed in front of his chest, Crowley sprawled back on the rather uncomfortable seat, and pondered the situation. 

“Did I really just complete the angel's assignment?” he asked out loud, but nobody answered him, not even the horses.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems I can't wait to share the rest of the story with you^^. So, here we have chapter 4 already. Just one more to go which I'll probably post tomorrow.

He marched back into the palace as soon as a drowsy stable boy had taken over the horses and the carriage. As if magically drawn to him, Crowley's way led him straight to Aziraphale's rooms.

Since he knew the angel didn't sleep, Crowley forcefully banged on the door, not caring in the slightest if he woke up half of the guest wing's residents with his actions.

A soft curse and frantic shuffling from beyond the door made Crowley smile.

In the next moment, the door opened, and a quite flustered angel stood before him, only wrapped in an opulent silk and velvet dressing gown that seemed hastily thrown on and tied shut at the front.

Crowley had to swallow heavily since he'd probably never seen the angel that casually dishevelled. But he quickly forced himself out of his stupor.

“Ehm,” he greeted Aziraphale, and he felt a little sheepish all of a sudden. 

“Why don't you come in,” Aziraphale interrupted his attempted confession, and stepped away from the door invitingly. 

Nodding, the demon shuffled inside the room, and took a deep, steeling breath as soon as the door was shut behind him, and he found himself confronted with Aziraphale's curious, expectant gaze turned right onto his person.

“Right. What I wanted to say... I believe I've just finished your assignment... It was an accident!” he blurted out, and then hastily assured. “Suddenly, Frances was all excited, and BAMM!” He snapped his fingers. “Faster than I could blink, he was in your side's books.”

A deep crease appeared between Aziraphale's brows as he tried to make sense to Crowley's babbling. “Who is Frances, my dear?”

“The boy!” Crowley snapped in exasperation, and took a step closer to the angel, staring at him intensely so as if to make him understand simply through his piercing gaze. “Your assignment.”

A light seemed to dawn on the angel, and a small, fond chuckle escaped him. “His name is not Frances, Crowley.”

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “But you know who I mean. Anyway, it's done.”

Blinking repeatedly, the perplexed angel stood frozen in front of Crowley.

“It's done?”

Crowley felt a sudden blush spread over his cheeks. “Yes, yes, didn't I just say that?”

“But... why?”

The demon felt his blush intensify, and he shuffled his feet sheepishly, looking down onto his boots. “Ah, well... Like I said. It just... happened.”

Aziraphale's eyebrows climbed up almost to his hairline in astonishment, Crowley noticed, when he dared take a shy peek at the angel, but he immediately lowered his gaze again.

Only a soft, amused chuckle caused him to look up at the angel once more. He was met with a warm, fond smile that seemed to lighten up Aziraphale from the inside before he could rein himself in. Pressing his lips together firmly to keep in the smile, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Then I thank you very much, my dear,” he said, as dignified as possible.

“Don't thank me,” Crowley groused, but the corners of his mouth twitched nonetheless.

And that was when he finally noticed that they were standing awfully close to each other (however  _ that _ may have happened). The demon couldn't help but notice once again the more than casual state Aziraphale was in. He almost choked on his own breath when he saw that, probably in his hurry to slip it on at Crowley's sudden, insistent knocking, the robe had slipped down halfway one shoulder to reveal a bit of naked skin.

“Ehm... what's with that getup?” he stammered, his voice raspy like sandpaper all of a sudden.

“Oh, ah, I've just been taking a bath,” Aziraphale explained, a soft rosy blush on his cheeks of which Crowley wasn't sure if it still stemmed from said bath or from something else. He saw the angel swallow heavily as well, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously, and he laughed weakly. 

“The servants looked so funny at me when I told them I wanted to take a bath,” he continued, fluttering his hands around jittery. He pouted. “Really, those humans. Eventually, I send them away to miracle a bathtub and hot water in here on my own. Just because we're living here doesn't mean we have to adopt all of their bad habits. Barbarians. I miss the Roman baths.”

Crowley snorted, still mightily distracted, but he was working on it; the angel getting all worked up over the topic was helping somewhat to clear his head from his sudden... thoughts. “My thoughts exactly when I arrived.” 

“Can you imagine, Crowley, these times, they don't bath because they think there are bad things in the water! The only concession they make to cleaning is wiping themselves down with a cloth and changing their shirts. How unsanitary. They never take them off! They even bath in them... well,  _ if _ they bathe,” Aziraphale amended quickly.

“I know. That's crazy; even you aren't that prudish,” Crowley agreed feebly, and the last slipped out unwittingly since he was  _ still _ distracted by that small slip of white skin that held his whole attention captive. He once more had to swallow heavily at the sight, and now that Aziraphale had apparently finished with getting all excited about humanity's hygiene habits (or lack thereof), there was nothing else Crowley had to concentrate on. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen more of Aziraphale already over the centur... well, maybe just that one time in ancient Rome when Aziraphale had worn a short-sleeved tunic – sadly, they never met in a Roman bath house... 

But that had been in public. Now, they were completely alone. Crowley felt his blood racing through veins, felt it start to boil, and in Aziraphale's dilated pupils, he could read the same desire that had ensnared him whole all of a sudden. It was so obvious; he was sure he couldn't have possibly missed  _ that _ look directed at him in the past... What had changed now?

Gulping, Crowley took off his glasses since he suddenly cou ldn't bear to see that white skin shimmering golden in the soft candle light through his dark lenses. 

It probably said a lot about Aziraphale's own confused state of mind when he only objected with a small noise instead of a full-on rebuke to Crowley's earlier comment that seemed a lifetime away already. And he still stared with wide eyes up at Crowley, into his now unguarded eyes, without even taking a step back to bring some distance between them again.

On the contrary. Suddenly, Aziraphale shuffled a small step closer. So close in fact that their chests almost touched. Crowley could feel the heat radiating from the angel's body, and he didn't even have to inhale all that deeply to take in Aziraphale's scent; it completely surrounded him right into his core. 

He stared into blue-grey eyes that looked up at him with the same mesmerised expression in them that Crowley felt for himself. 

Hesitantly, almost afraid, but unable not to do it, Crowley raised his hand to touch that warm bare shoulder. A violent shudder ran through both of them at the contact, and for a moment, all Crowley could do was stare at his much more tanned fingers clinging to that white shoulder. In his mind's eye, he went a step further, and brushed the heavy cloth further aside, parting the robe, shoving it over Aziraphale's arms until it fell to the ground at their feet in a soft rustle. Leaving the angel completely bare and his to take if they both wished it.

As if on instinct, Crowley leaned in at the same moment Aziraphale craned his neck, drawn to each other as if spellbound. Their gazes still held fast to each other. Crowley felt Aziraphale's warm breath on his face, and then heat sizzled through his whole body when his lips brushed Aziraphale's in the barest of touches.

And then, Aziraphale froze.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips, and another shudder rippled through Crowley when the angel's warm breath caressed his lips. “We can't.”

And suddenly, Aziraphale took a step back adamantly. And then another, and with every centimetre that parted them, Crowley felt as if Holy Water was bubbling in his stomach, melting him from the inside. 

With his big, deer-like eyes, the angel stared at him sadly while he readjusted the robe, effectively covering up his body again. “It's a sin,” he murmured sadly, the regret visibly dimming the divine glow that always seemed to surround him. “It goes against everything we stand for, and our only wages for our actions would be pain and surely death if we're found out.”

“It's not a sin!” Crowley wanted to shout. “How can it be a sin if it feels so right? So good? So sacred...”

But he didn't voice these thoughts out loud. Instead, he only nodded in agreement, even if, deep inside, he had a completely different opinion. He gradually started not giving a shit about Hell. Or Heaven for that matter. In his opinion, there were only Aziraphale and him. And it was his deepest belief that Aziraphale thought so as well. He was just too conscientious to allow himself to think any differently, to allow himself to become a traitor in Heaven's eyes. Under normal circumstances, Crowley thought that this attitude was admirable because he himself surely didn't feel the same loyalty towards Hell. But right now, since it was so important for them both, it was plain annoying. 

Taking in a shuddering breath, Crowley took a step back now, too. Letting his yearning gaze rake over Aziraphale's form for a last time, he nodded again. “Good night, angel.”

And with that, he spun around to escape Aziraphale's presence and the temptation he presented.

Crowley was in no mood to leave his bed the next morning. He felt miserable and angry. Sleeping his anger away for a couple of years sounded pretty good right now, but he couldn't. He still had his blasted assignment to finish. And he couldn't hope for a solution as easy as for Aziraphale's assignment. 

Therefore dragging himself out of bed, the demon, skipping breakfast, made his way straight into a small, more private parlour where he sensed his man's presence. 

Sneaking in with the help of a minor demonic miracle, Crowley found himself amidst a small gathering of courtiers. Looking around, he spied his assignment, of course, Madame de Pompadour and – just his luck – Aziraphale next to her. 

Crowley actually breathed a sigh of relief when Casanova suddenly materialised next to him.

“What's going on here?” he asked, curiously looking around since the humans all looked as if they were waiting for something.

“You look dreadful,” Casanova greeted him with, but fortunately didn't pry any further. “We're waiting for Bernadotti. He promised Madame de Pompadour a private concert this morning.”

“Ah,” Crowley made stupidly since he didn't really know how he should feel about that since the castrato had been an issue between him and Aziraphale last night. 

Much to his shock, Crowley's apprehension vaporised in the blink of an eye when, a couple of minutes later, Angelo Bernadotti appeared under a lot of praiseful noises of his audience. The moment the castrato started to sing – this time without the choir –, Crowley was strangely bewitched. All the miserable sadness that had kept him awake the whole night, that still seemed to hold his heart in a cruel vice, were pushed into the background of his mind under the power of the man's voice. It hadn't felt like that yesterday, had it? Last night, the power of that music, together with the choir, had been too much for the demon, but now... Now, he felt lighter, happier. He couldn't help but stare at the castrato in utter fascination.

“I'll introduce you later,” Casanova suddenly murmured into his ear, making Crowley flinch. “I met him when I was in Rome.”

“Wha...” Wide-eyed, Crowley's head snapped to the side to blink at the human. “Don't be ridiculous,” he scoffed after a couple of moments.

He felt Casanova take a step closer to him so that their sides brushed. 

“Don't fight it,” Casanova whispered. “I once fell in love with a castrato – well, turned out he was a woman in disguise; I was so relieved, let me tell you. But nonetheless, even if Bellino had actually turned out to be a man, I wouldn't have cared. If it's love, then it doesn't matter if the whole world thinks it's a sin.”

Crowley's throat felt parched, and no amount of swallowing helped right now. “It's...” he rasped with difficulty. “It's not like that.”

And it wasn't, of course. Not between him and Bernadotti. But it was like that between him and Aziraphale, wasn't it? 

He couldn't tell Casanova that, though.

When he didn't elaborate further, Casanova simply made a sympathetic noise, and probably believed him to be in denial about his feelings for the human man. 

And so, when the little private concert was over, Crowley found himself dragged away by Casanova, and suddenly stood eye to eye with the pretty young man. 

Up close, Bernadotti was even prettier. His dark eyes widened slightly when he was introduced to Crowley, and a rosy blush spread over his cheeks. He was tall, taller even than Crowley, but then, Crowley had learned somewhere that castrati were usually tall with long, spindly legs, and a barrel-shaped chest; something to do with the castration and the resulting growth inhibition. That didn't diminish the beauty of his face though which matched the divine beauty of his voice. 

Crowley felt himself blush violently. It had been a long time, if at all, since he had reacted that way to a human. These feelings were rather familiar to him in another context; he didn't dare turn around to look for the angel...

As much as Crowley was smitten with Bernadotti, the feeling seemed mutual, and the demon needed a while to realise the young castrato was flirting with him. 

As soon as he had realised though, he found himself flirting back (clumsily and awkward, but Bernadotti didn't seem to mind; he seemed to actually find Crowley's clumsiness sweet). Crowley would never tumble into anything with a human, not like that, but right now, the attention and admiration the man showered him with was balm for his troubled heart. It felt good to be openly liked. Although Aziraphale showed him open fondness as well, sometimes, the angel fell back into his old habits of being a snobby little shit like all the other angels, acting as if he was better than Crowley. The demon never called him out on it, and these moments didn't last very long, but nonetheless, it hurt Crowley, even if he didn't like to admit it. 

Bernadotti was different. He laughed about Crowley's witty comments openly, his laughter sounding as light and beautiful as a bell, and he unabashedly tucked his arm into the crook of Crowley's elbow when they strolled around this part of the palace for a bit, just talking. He and Aziraphale never really touched despite the angel's trustful, sensitive nature – or maybe he only never touched Crowley, the thought leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Around noon, Bernadotti had to take his leave, being invited to dine with the king and his family; something Crowley wasn't invited to, nor would he have appreciated an invitation like that anyway.

Bernadotti was gone only for a few minutes when Aziraphale suddenly turned up next to Crowley.

“There you are,” the angel murmured, and his voice sounded a little frosty. “I thought that young man had abducted you.”

Correction. He didn't sound frosty, he sounded bitchy.

Amazed, Crowley's eyebrows went up on their own volition as he stared at Aziraphale. 

“Are you jealous?” he suddenly blurted out in an unconscious sadomasochistic attempt to make both of them even more miserable.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Aziraphale snapped, a quite familiar mask of haughty dismissiveness and superiority back in place. “What reason could I have to be  _ jealous _ ?”

Crowley intently staring at the angel which Aziraphale returned stealthily from the corner of his eye caused an embarrassed blush creeping onto pale cheeks – for once, the sight wasn't as pretty or endearing since they both felt the crushing weight of Aziraphale's lie hovering heavily over them. 

None of them had the grit though to voice their real thoughts on the matter.

And before they even got the chance for it, Madame de Pompadour joined the two all of a sudden. But much to their surprise, she slipped her hand into the crook of Crowley's elbow to draw him away for a little chat, not Aziraphale's.

Stumbling away with the insistent lady, Crowley threw a helpless look over his shoulder at Aziraphale, but the angel looked as puzzled as he felt.

“Don't look so frightened,” Madame de Pompadour suddenly laughed, and Crowley promptly felt his face heat. “I'm your friend.”

“Not  _ my _ friend, don't you think,” Crowley couldn't help but mutter while she steered them both through a luxurious hall, then outside onto a terrace.

The demon and the woman stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the gardens, and simply took in the vast beauty of the park, still peaceful and quiet so early in the day. 

She suddenly squeezed his arm which she still hadn't let go of. 

“Actually,” she said cautiously, “ _ he _ 's the reason I wanted to talk to you.”

Crowley's head snapped around to her briefly, and even through his dark glasses, she must notice the naked fear in his widened eyes.

What was this human getting at?

Quickly, he turned his head away from her again.

Madame de Pompadour softly cleared her throat before she turned her body a little sideways so that she could look up at him. He didn't take his forward-facing gaze away from the park spreading out beneath him though, part stubborn, part in trepidation.

“Normally, I would never be as presumptuous, and address this rather...  _ delicate _ matter, but... Aziraphale is my friend, and I can see that you are a good man as well.”

A choked noise of protest got stuck in Crowley's throat at that.

“I know that he has feelings for you, Marquis.”

Crowley's heart almost stopped at hearing her words before it took up its task again, and started beating like mad in his chest.

He swallowed heavily. “D-did he tell you that?”

“No. But nonetheless, his feelings are like an open book to me...”

This was preposterous! But... on the other hand, Crowley knew, didn't he? Despite their difficulties, he knew that Aziraphale returned his own feelings in some way.

“As are yours.”

He hadn't even realised Madame de Pompadour wasn't finished, and at first, the words she had spoken didn't even register with him.

When they did, Crowley sucked in a sharp breath, and made a garbled noise.

The human woman inched a little closer to him so that her warm body pressed against his side in a confidential manner.

“Although we are but strangers to each other, even I can see it. Even your jealousy regarding me.”

“I'm not...” he protested, but stopped again. It was no use anyway, she'd caught him out.

“Believe me though, we are just friends. Maybe kindred spirits, but my heart belongs to the king... As his does belong to you.” 

“We're not like that,” Crowley said, repeating the words he had said to Casanova earlier even if in a completely different context. 

“You are,” she insisted, and he was amazed that a human showed so much tolerance or understanding for something humans had always been a bit touchy about more or less through the ages. Just one more reason to feel the highest respect for her then. “It's like an almost tangible power draws you to each other, but, forgive me for being so forward, there is also something that pushes you away from each other at the same time over and over. Watching you two interact with each other is like a fatefully choreographed dance where the one who is currently leading is inadvertently hurting the other.”

“Being a demon and an angel does that to you,” he wanted to say, but that was something he couldn't possibly say to a human. The times where he or Aziraphale had revealed themselves to humans over the millennia were few and far between. It was too dangerous for all involved. This woman would be worthy though. Crowley somehow felt that she understood much more than what humans believed to be true or possible. Who knew what she had already seen in her short life. 

Nonetheless, he kept quiet. 

Madame de Pompadour pressed even closer to him so that she could talk softly in his ear, making sure that absolutely nobody could overhear them. “It's no secret, my health isn't the best. So I don't know how much time I have with my king or... I know though that it's not as much as I'd like. Therefore, I beg you, Marquis; life is too short to deny yourself true love. I know it won't be easy. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Loving a king is never easy, and the same undoubtedly goes for a man loving another man. But looking at you two, I know all the hardship would be worth it.” Her hand slipped down his arm a little until she could grasp his, and she squeezed it firmly. “Stop pushing each other away, I beg you. I'm telling  you all this instead of him because he is much too stubborn. But I hope that by making see  _ you _ reason, you will realise that what you two have is worth fighting for.”

An uncomfortable feeling like a heavy weight pressed down on Crowley's body, holding his chest like a constricting vice that made it hard to breath. 

“It's complicated,” he managed to get out around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Love always is,” she countered. 

Crowley sighed heavily, and lowered his eyes. “I suppose so.”

Finally, he dared to look the woman straight in the eye, and even though he wore his glasses, he knew that she was  _ seeing _ him, right down to his soul. 

“What...”

Was he really doing this? Encouraging this? It was dangerous. So dangerous for both of them...

“Come to my play tonight,” she said readily, not giving Crowley a chance to think things over too much. “Accompany him. I know that would make him happy.”

Taking in a deep breath which he then softly exhaled through his nose, Crowley finally nodded, giving her a grumbling, unintelligible answer.


	5. Chapter 5

Fortunately, darkness spread around them in the theatre, and Madame de Pompadour had assigned a private loge to them. Both afforded them some much needed privacy. The thought of having to spend this evening side by side but surrounded by mindless, shallow humans was unbearable to Crowley. There was still some tension between them left (although Aziraphale had been honestly happy and touched by Crowley changing his mind and agreeing to accompany him tonight), but here, in the privacy of this loge, completely alone with Aziraphale, Crowley, paradoxically, didn't feel as vulnerable as he would have being with the angel amidst the humans as a buffer.

He knew it took two to lay their disagreements to rest, but his little chat with Madame de Pompadour had somehow given him the strength to take the first step now. 

“She's good, isn't she?” Crowley therefore whispered all of a sudden in a very awkward attempt to show his good will, and that he definitely wasn't jealous of Madame de Pompadour any more (which was at least mostly true).

Aziraphale hummed softly while he watched his new friend acting on stage below their private loge. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “But do you see it? That poor woman. Such dreadful health. Maybe I should help her out a bit.”

“You can't, angel,” Crowley hissed back, not unkindly, but he had to remind the angel.

In the gloomy light surrounding them and giving them privacy, Crowley saw Aziraphale grimace sadly while staring at the stage determinedly. “I know, just... just a bit. If I don't help her, I'm afraid that she will die well before her time.” Timidly, the angel turned his head to look at Crowley pleadingly, his wide eyes begging the demon to understand. “Just until her friend comes back. I know she'd love to see him once more, whoever he is.”

“No, Aziraphale,” Crowley said firmly and finally, and he had to hold himself back from reaching out to take the angel's hand. “It's too much. Neither your lot nor mine are allowed to meddle in human affairs in that way.”

Not that his side would have  _ wanted _ to save a human's life through a miraculous intervention.

Compassionately, he took off his glasses, and leaned closer to Aziraphale. He searched the angel's desperate gaze. “You can't. I know how many people you wanted to save over the centuries. And believe me or not, I have encountered humans who I've wanted to save as well. But we can't. This decision is not for us to make. And she's accepted her fate. She told me, she will be fine.”

Wide, deer-like eyes searched his for a few more seconds, but eventually, Aziraphale seemed to see the truth in Crowley's yellow eyes. He nodded sadly, and shifted around in his chair so he could continue watching the play.

Crowley grimaced since he hated to see the angel so down, but he couldn't do anything about it. Therefore, he was glad when, a couple of minutes later, Angelo Bernadotti appeared on stage beside Madame de Pompadour, and they started singing a duet. Maybe the divine voice would cheer Aziraphale up a bit. Crowley, for his part, felt his own gloomy mood lift immediately when he heard the castrato sing. Whereas the whole choir had been too much for the demon, just the man's voice was... Some kind of balm for his soul you could say. Even more so than this morning.

He heard Aziraphale draw in a shuddering breath next to him.

“He's... good as well, isn't he?” the angel eventually asked awkwardly in a clumsy attempt at a truce on his part, too. Honest awe rang in his voice, but Crowley nonetheless detected the slight steely undertone and reluctance to admit to such a thing. Was he still jealous of Bernadotti? Well, if Crowley could still be jealous of Madame de Pompadour, Aziraphale had the right to be jealous of the castrato. Even if it was silly. Crowley may be fascinated by the singer – a tiny bit –, but he would never put him before Aziraphale. That was ridiculous.

Stoically, Crowley shoved these thoughts away, and concentrated on the music again, letting it permeate his whole being until he felt as if his essence was aflame with divine power. For a bitter-sweet moment, it felt as if he had his Grace back. He'd never thought humans could ever create something that had so much power. Adamantly, he ignored the wetness suddenly blurring his vision, and he blinked rapidly until he could see clearly again.

“He's... quite good, yeah,” he eventually managed to choke out, and immediately felt Aziraphale's probing gaze on himself. Damn. Could be that the angel had noticed how touched he was by Bernadotti's voice. He shouldn't have felt so safe up here in the darkness that made him give in to his feelings and show them openly. The vulnerability Crowley felt all of a sudden was not a nice feeling, even if Aziraphale was the only one seeing it (or maybe  _ because _ Aziraphale was the one seeing it? He wasn't sure). He cleared his throat discretely to get rid of the scratchy quality of his voice although it probably was too late already anyway.

Normally, it was Aziraphale who was so incredibly moved by such music while Crowley – much like with Shakespeare's plays – preferred more livelier music. This time though, their roles seemed reversed, and he actually felt a little bad that Aziraphale couldn't enjoy the music as much as he normally would or as Crowley did right now. The angel's lingering jealousy, even if he wouldn't ever admit to it nor would Crowley ever really address the matter despite the teasing this morning, placed a shadow over his enjoyment of the music (the grave background of the nature of Bernadotti's voice may play a role, too). Nonetheless, Crowley felt a little pride and a spark of happiness that Aziraphale was jealous of a human because of Crowley. In all the years they've known each other, Crowley couldn't ever remember something like this happening. He felt as if through that, through their mutual jealousy, a line had been crossed in their relationship. He wasn't sure where it would lead them ultimately, and he doubted that it was safe for them (nobody said anything about good, though; this could be exceptionally good for them), but he sensed that they were quickly approaching a point where there was no going back.

And the way he felt right now, he didn't want to go back.

All thoughts abruptly stopped when Aziraphale suddenly took his hand.

“But you were better,” the angel murmured in a gentle voice. 

Crowley's brain short-circuited for a moment when he felt Aziraphale's hand on his. He froze, and was unable to breathe. If he had been required to say something in that moment, he would have only been able to stutter and splutter. Instead, a single, choked noise escaped him.

Then, Crowley realised what Aziraphale had said, and, all of a sudden, he was shaken out of his shock at being touched by the angel. He swallowed heavily, and around the lump in his throat, he managed,  “What are you talkin' about?” 

“I remember,” the angel replied in a voice so soft and gentle in its fondness that a violent shudder ran through Crowley so as if Aziraphale had leant in and the angel's warm breath caressed the side of his face. “I remember those times back in Heaven. I remember hearing you sing.” He shrugged softly. “I know we never met in person, but you were famous for your voice. Everybody loved you for your voice. And I... I loved your voice, too, even if I never told you.” 

Crowley seemed incapable of doing something else but swallow heavily. Almost shyly, he sought Aziraphale's gaze. He was amazed that the angel even knew who he had been in Heaven. “Did you... did you recognise me in Eden?”

“No. I didn't know what you looked like before you Fell. I only knew your voice. Sadly, I have to admit that it took me a long time, but eventually, a few centuries into our acquaintance, I recognised your voice. And...” Aziraphale indicated the stage below them. “As heavenly as his voice is, yours was truly divine.”

The demon felt himself blushing violently. How could he not?

“Ah, angel,” he mumbled completely flustered. “Stop talkin' like that. You can't say such things.”

Nonetheless, Crowley felt happiness surge through his whole body as he realised that this could very well be the most honest concession regarding the angel's feelings he would probably ever receive from Aziraphale. Had ever received, that was for sure.

Knowing the angel – if he even felt the same as Crowley, no matter what his own instincts or Madame de Pompadour may tell him –, he would never tell him what he really felt, that he  _ loved _ him. Therefore, this admission that at least went beyond fondness, was incredibly precious to Crowley; that the angel had found the courage to tell him. 

Peaceful calm started descending over him again, and as if in a daze, he turned his hand that lay on his thigh with Aziraphale's placed upon it. His heart beating like mad, he entwined their fingers with each other.

Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered, heartfelt, and protected by the darkness so that even Aziraphale with his supernatural hearing would be heart-pressed to hear it. But Crowley knew that he had heard, and that was enough.

As if the feeling flowed between them through their intertwined hands, peace streamed through Crowley. 

With all that had happened here, with everything that had almost happened between them; the sizzling lust between them... All the times Crowley had wanted so badly to give in to his desires, knowing that Aziraphale wanted to give in as well. 

All that faded into the background all of a sudden. 

If there would never be more between them, Crowley suddenly knew that it would always be enough to hold Aziraphale's hand like this, to be close to him. 

The carnal urges were gone, and this place seemed to have released him from its (maybe imaginary, who knew) spell that had made him feel emotions and wants the demon had never felt before. At least not that strong.

From one second to the other, this yearning didn't haunt him any more, not tempting him any more.

And he was content with that.

The peace Crowley had felt last night still held on when, the next afternoon, he took a stroll through the park with Aziraphale.

Apparently, the angel had sensed this new dynamic between them as well. Crowley felt a kind of peace and contentment radiating from him like a gentle hum in the air. He hadn't even been aware that Aziraphale had felt the same last night. Or was something else causing the angel to feel like that? Crowley couldn't be sure, but he wouldn't ask him either. He enjoyed the peaceful mood between them too much right now.

“I have a confession to make,” the angel suddenly said.

Crowley swallowed heavily, growing flustered as he wondered about the nature of that confession. But then, he registered the slightly nervous lilt to the angel's voice, and he became worried.

He sneaked a peek at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, but the angel didn't look at him. Instead his gaze was fastened to the gravel path in front of them.

“I didn't actually mean to, but I have driven your aristocrat into the arms of one of the choir boys.”

Crowley did a double take. He would have expected anything, but not this.

“E-excuse me?!”

Aziraphale shrugged ungainly. “Well, yes. It just... happened,” he sheepishly parroted Crowley's words from two nights ago. “He's doomed, one hundred percent. I felt him fall for your side.” The angel shrugged again, grimacing. “But, oh well, at least he seemed happy with the boy, and vice versa. It's too late now for him anyway, let him enjoy the time he has until perdition claims him.”

Crowley bursting out in sudden hysterical laughter abruptly interrupted Aziraphale in his nervous babbling. Pressing his lips together in affront, the angel glared at Crowley.

The demon couldn't stop laughing though, and he laughed even harder when Aziraphale's lips twitched all of a sudden, and in the next second, the angel was joining in. 

The two supernatural beings had stopped their stroll in the middle of the gravel path somewhere in the vast gardens of Versailles, and were laughing and giggling like mad.

Eventually, they tried to calm down again, but the second they met each other's eyes, they were gone again in another laughing fit.

Only the sudden boom of a crack of thunder put a stop to their silliness, and angel and demon actually jumped in surprise at the deafening noise.

Wide-eyed, they stared up into the threateningly dark sky suddenly filled with blazing blizzards flashing before the dark canopy, then at each other. When the first drops of rain started falling, they started moving.

A little round, temple-like pavilion was the only place in their vicinity that could give them shelter from the rain, so they hastened to the pretty, white pillared building. When Crowley and Aziraphale reached their temporary refuge, though, they were already soaked to the bone as it had started coming down in buckets in a matter of seconds.

Nonetheless, even that didn't have the power to taint their good mood – even Crowley's who wasn't very fond of rain –, and so, still giddy and laughing breathlessly, they hastily stumbled under the domed roof of the pavilion. Coming to a slithering stop, angel and demon barrelled into each other in their haste, and crashed into the wall in a tangle of limbs. Crowley let out a breathless “Oof” when the air was punched out of him as his back hit the wall none too gently, and Aziraphale crashed into him, the angel's fingers digging deeply into the fabric of his black coat covering Crowley's chest when Aziraphale instinctively sought purchase.

His own hands automatically flew to the angel's elbows to steady him. 

Eventually, they came to a complete sto p, poised just like that, so close to each other.

Both supernatural beings were breathing hard, and gradually, the laboured breathing didn't stem from their running to seek shelter any more but from something else... 

Crowley had to swallow hard, his breath stuttering. Aziraphale's body was so warm pressed against his. The serpent in him wanted to curl up against the angel, around him even, and soak up his comforting heat. 

Suddenly, he  ripped off his tinted glasses since they had the audacity to fog up in the damp weather although he'd explicitly repeatedly told them not to under such conditions. They cluttered to the ground, forgotten.

Maybe that move had been a mistake since he saw Aziraphale's deer-like eyes widen now that no barriers were standing between them any more, enabling them to practically look into each other's souls. There was no hiding any more, even for Crowley.

Without the dark glasses  obstructing his view, Crowley could also soak up the sight of the rosy blush on Aziraphale's cheeks in its full, colourful glory. It was an unbearably pretty sight.

He couldn't have said who leaned in first, the only important thing was that they did. Their faces  drew closer and closer, and then...

Another roar of thunder caused them to burst apart. Startled, they looked at each other, flustered, and gradually embarrassed.

Nobody knew what to say just right now.

They stayed like that, a few feet apart, and still staring into each other's eyes.

“Why did you stay?” Crowley suddenly asked. Right that moment, he felt that the answer to that question was one of the most important things in his whole existence. He hated how small and timid his voice sounded, though. He cleared his throat.

“Your assignment has been completed. You could have left two days ago already. Why didn't you?”

Aziraphale's eyes widened even more, and he looked like a frightened rabbit in front of a snake. 

Suddenly, he backed away from Crowley, his gaze lowered. “I have to go,” he mumbled under his breath while he distanced himself even more from the demon. “I've been here too long already. Goodbye, Crowley.”

By now, Aziraphale had stumbled down the steps of the pavilion, and he was back in the pouring rain. He turned around fully now, away from Crowley, and started back in the direction of the palace. 

Panic welled up in Crowley all of a sudden as he realised that Aziraphale wanted to leave. Not just this place but the palace. Probably even the country, back to England which had been assigned to the angel as his sole jurisdiction since, by this time, other angels were working miracles all over the rest of the world – the same went for Crowley; travelling the whole world was a bit much by now with so many humans inhabiting the planet. 

But if that happened, there was no saying when they would be seeing each other again. 

The thought send a pang through Crowley's whole being, and he felt as if his heart was being held in a cruel, vice-like grip that was making him feel faint.

As if stung by a bee, Crowley suddenly propelled himself into action. 

Not caring about the heavy rain at all, he raced down the steps of the pavilion and after Aziraphale. 

He caught up with him after only a couple of metres. Overtaking the angel's brisk pace, Crowley came to a slithering halt in front of Aziraphale. 

The angel stopped abruptly, his wide eyes meeting Crowley's, silently begging him to let him pass.

Crowley didn't care.

He took a step closer to Aziraphale again, his boots making an ugly, squelching sound on the by now soaked grassy ground.

“Why did you stay?” he asked once more.

His breathing suddenly becoming laboured, but not from his hasty attempt at escaping, Aziraphale lowered his eyes to the ground between them.

He didn't say anything for the longest time, and Crowley, despite being awfully restless and impatient, didn't press him. 

When Aziraphale eventually chanced a shy peek up at Crowley, it seemed as if a small eternity had passed. 

The rain around them suddenly seemed to lessen, the pitter-patter of the fat drops hitting the muddy ground fading into the background. The only thing Crowley perceived was the angel in front of him, hearing his soft puffs of breaths, seeing the emotion swirling in the grey-blue eyes. Feeling the heat of his body that was part human warmth, part celestial power tingling all over Crowley's skin. 

If Crowley didn't know better (but he did, since he hadn't anything to do with it), he'd say time stood still for a few moments.

Then, all of a sudden, time continued in its normal pace, the spell placed over them was broken the moment both of them threw each other forward and collided forcefully in the middle. 

Their lips crashed together in an uncoordinated, messy kiss, frantic, searching hands cupping wet cheeks and running through soaked hair.

Crowley fell to his knees, uncaring about the mud, and pulled Aziraphale with him. Still kissing, they tugged and tore at their wet clothing as if in a frenzy. Damn the current fashion! Crowley wanted to growl in frustration. Buttons _everywhere_ and every bit of skin covered up in soaked fabric that was stiff and difficult to handle in its wet state. 

Growling into Aziraphale's mouth for real this time, Crowley became fed up with their stubborn clothing, and simply miracled them away (Aziraphale could be pissed off with him later for that since Crowley doubted he would ever recall where the Hell he had send their clothes; he'd just have make do with new, conjured up ones, the fussy bastard). Aziraphale seemed to forgive him this once when the sharp gasp the angel made at the first full-body contact was any indication. An answering, throaty whine escaped Crowley when he felt Aziraphale's naked body pressed to his own. He felt as if he would faint any minute now with how violent his heart was beating in his chest.

Suddenly, his world tilted, and he found himself flat on the ground, perched over Aziraphale although he had no idea who had brought them into this horizontal position, him or the angel.

Ultimately, it didn't matter.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked down at the flushed angel underneath him. Panting, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, Aziraphale looked up at him, flushing his lashes rapidly as he tried to blink the water out of his face pelting down on him. As if on instinct, Crowley arched his back, and his night-black wings materialised behind him. Like Aziraphale had shielded him from rain all those millennia ago, it was now Crowley who spread his wings over the angel to protect him from the rain battering Aziraphale in the face uncomfortably. 

The gesture and what it meant didn't go unnoticed by Aziraphale, and he smiled at Crowley. His smile seemed to light up everything around him, and Crowley had trouble breathing all of a sudden. 

Time seemed to freeze once more, and in that moment neither of them even cared that they were out in the open in broad daylight in the royal gardens of Versailles, naked, in an unmistakable position, and with Crowley's wings out – with a rain this heavy, nobody was outside anyway, and even if somebody saw them, Crowley didn't care. The only thing Crowley could think or care about was the enticing vision beneath him. 

As if in a trance, Crowley reached out to cup Aziraphale's flushed cheek in one hand, his heart lurching with happiness when Aziraphale leaned into the touch, before he let his hand wander up to the angel's hair. Finally, Crowley touched the white-blond curls for the first time ever, and, involuntarily, he clawed his fingers into the angel's hair, never wanting to let go. It was ridiculously soft, even when wet. 

Gradually, Crowley became aware of the burning hardness trapped between their bodies, and he couldn't help himself but thrust down, grinding his own body into Aziraphale's.

Twin moans were ripped from the demon and the angel, and Aziraphale closed his eyes in bliss, his head thrown back while he writhed on the muddy ground at Crowley's ministrations.

Crowley wanted to hear that moan again, wanted to see that expression of ecstasy that his actions had painted on to the angel's face for the rest of his existence. So, he snapped his hips again. And again. A sweet pressure started building up inside of him with every thrust and with every sweet moan that he ripped from Aziraphale's lips. He almost choked on his own breath when the angel's hips feebly started meeting him thrust for thrust. What happened right this moment was the closest Crowley would ever get to divinity again. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. In Crowley's ears, it was so many things; a plea, a confession, a prayer even.

Their eyes met once more in mute understanding, and Crowley's breath hitched when Aziraphale spread his thighs beneath him in unmistakable invitation.

Swallowing heavily, Crowley felt peaceful serenity overcome him all of a sudden, his jittery nerves calming down rapidly as he suddenly knew what he had to do. Firmly grabbing Aziraphale's soft hips, Crowley pushed into his angel deeply. 

The two supernatural beings froze, their wide eyey meeting each other as their bodies joined so intimately. For a moment, Crowley felt as if he was floating outside his body, but at the same time not. Pleasure he had never thought possible raced and pounded through his whole body, and his skin seemed to burn where he touched Aziraphale's. 

In the blink of an eye, but what seemed to them like a small eternity, the moment was over, the spell broken. Moving like lightning, Aziraphale suddenly surged up until Crowley was kneeling in the mud, and Aziraphale was straddling him, the forceful movement causing Crowley to sink even deeper into Aziraphale's body. Moaning, Aziraphale leaned forward for another mind-blowing kiss in the same second that Crowley noticed a flash of white behind Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, accompanied by a soft whooshing sound. 

As if in a frenzy again, they kissed hungrily, messily, while greedy hands wandered over each other's skin, and finally around their bodies to their backs. Without voicing any protests, the demon and the angel sank their fingers into the soft feathers of each other's wings. A loud, choked cry was ripped from both as pure bliss sizzled hotly through them. Crowley hadn't thought that what he was feeling could even become more intense.

Instinct took over, and Crowley canted his hips up to thrust into Aziraphale over and over. Clinging to Crowley as if for dear life, his fingers still buried deeply in the feathers of Crowley's wings, Aziraphale eagerly met him thrust for thrust.

It became heard to breath as ecstasy spiralled higher and higher inside Crowley. This almost blinding ecstasy racing through them was too much for their human corporations, and with a violent shudder, both beings crashed into their respective climaxes. An inner light seemed to shine from Aziraphale the moment his passions reached their crest, and Crowley basked in it. Another shudder of ecstasy rippled through him as the angel's light touched him down into his inner core where his Grace should have been, warming that empty place for the first time in millennia.

Trembling violently over their whole bodies, they clung to each other, panting, exhausted but filled with a deep peace while the heavy rain still pounded down on them, the sky still dark and only occasionally lightened up by sizzling blizzards.

Clinging tightly to Aziraphale, Crowley met his eyes. He felt afloat on his feelings, light, and full of peace, but also numb. He couldn't help but kiss Aziraphale again deeply when the yearning to possess him whole became too much for him once more. His heart surged when Aziraphale kissed back equally as eager and impossibly gentle.

“I love you,” he thought, but he didn't speak the words out loud. Angels could feel love, couldn't they? Maybe Aziraphale could feel the love of a demon as well right now. And maybe, just maybe, that warm glow that shone from Aziraphale's innermost core and warming Crowley's whole being was love, too. He just had to believe in it with all he had. He needed to have faith in the both of them.

In mutual agreement, demon and angel decided to leave Versailles the next day. Their assignments were both finished, successfully. The only thing that was left to be done was writing their reports, and for that, they had to sit down together to coordinate with each other about who would write what.

But for that, they didn't have to stay at the palace.

Crowley remembered the crêperie he had passed in Paris. It was probably their last chance to have lunch together before their respective duties would separate them again for who knew how long.

So, after having said goodbye to Madame de Pompadour and Casanova rather hastily, and with the promise to return (they wouldn't), Crowley and Aziraphale unconsciously quickened their steps to Crowley's carriage. 

Letting the angel climb in first, Crowley looked back at the still calm and peaceful palace. Madame de Pompadour and Casanova stood up on one of the balconies, and were watching their departure. And behind them... yes, it was Frances. The boy raised a hand to wave goodbye, and even from this distance, Crowley could see the truly grateful smile on the young man's face.

Giving a curt nod as a reply, Crowley finally turned his back on Versailles, and climbed into the carriage after the angel. 

As soon as the carriage doors had clicked shut behind them, they let out a collective relieved breath. These assignments had taken their toll on them more than they were prepared to admit.

Right now, both were in desperate need of a little holiday to recover from the strain.

A new, strange yet peaceful, almost heavenly mood laid itself over the interior of the carriage on their way to Paris. Both knew they wouldn't talk about what had happened yesterday – hadn't even when they had dressed again in silence, and returned to the palace, overly aware of each other, but somehow so far away, too –, and maybe it would never happen again, but it  _ could _ . One day, when times were changing, when they were both free of their obligations, however that may come to pass, there could be more between them; it simply  _ had _ to happen, everything else would be unbearably cruel . For now though, it was enough for Crowley to know Aziraphale felt the same as him deep in his heart. 

Leaving the carriage behind after their bumpy journey, Crowley led Aziraphale through the lively streets of Paris.

“Where are you taking me, Crowley?” Aziraphale laughed, hastening to keep up with the demon's pace. 

“Lunch,” was all Crowley answered, and, satisfied, he felt a burst of celestial power wash over him in happiness in reply.

“I've never eaten such fabulous crêpes,” Aziraphale sighed after the last bite. He beamed at Crowley in utter bliss. “We absolutely have to repeat that someday, my dear.”

Crowley made a strangled, affirmative noise since he was once more very distracted by the angel's eating habits. At least the obscene moaning had been held in check this time.

He cleared his throat noisily.

“Whatever, okay. Let's... let's go over our respective reports, shall we?”

Placing his napkin aside, Aziraphale nodded, and together, they bend closer to each other over the table conspiratorially.

**End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Do you think I should change the rating into Mature? I'm really unsure about this; normally I do Explicit content, so that the question never comes up^^


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